


Diamond in the Rough

by cardinalgirl75



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (for everyone who's heard me talking about it for a while), Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, More characters to be added later, Slow Burn, and more tags too, and she's not shy about admitting that parts of this story will draw on recent Cardinals history, and yes there is twincest at the beginning, at least at first, catcher!Brienne, pitcher!Jaime, typical misogyny against a female who wants to play baseball, warning: This Author is a lifelong St. Louis Cardinals fan, yeah I probably should've warned for that a little sooner, yes this is The Baseball Story!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28055919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalgirl75/pseuds/cardinalgirl75
Summary: All Brienne Tarth's ever wanted to do was play baseball.  All the world's ever given her is scorn for thinking a woman could be as good as a man--until she's drafted by the King's Landing Royals.  Now she's got a chance to make her wildest dreams come true.Jaime Lannister overcame a rocky start to his career to become the premiere pitcher for the King's Landing Royals.  He thinks a woman playing professional baseball is ludicrous--until he meets Brienne Tarth.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 122
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooo! This is a story idea that hit me out of the blue toward the end of baseball season and took up so much space in my brain that I began writing this story for NaNoWriMo. I have my outline and the first three chapters completed (and three more chapters needing some revision and review by my beta), so my game plan is to post once a week. :)
> 
> As I mentioned in the tags, I've been a St. Louis Cardinals fan my entire life so it seemed only natural that I got around to writing a baseball story _someday_ , right??? Since I know that there are people who may not be as familiar with baseball as I am, I'll try to explain any terminology/rules (that don't get explained in the story itself) at the end of chapters where it's needed. If I leave something out and you're not sure what I'm talking about, please don't hesitate to ask.
> 
> A million thanks go out to my beta, waxedpaperdoor, for reading the first three chapters and giving them her stamp of approval!
> 
> And you can find me on Tumblr: [here](https://writergirl2011.tumblr.com)

“I was not the kid that was gonna follow the rest of the group. It’s just knowing what you want to do and doing it and not worrying about what anybody else says.”  
~~Kim Ng 

~*~

It was a great day for a ball game.

The weather in late May was always something of an adventure at Storm’s End. Not as tumultuous as it would get in the late summer and early fall, but not the mild, placid climate found farther inland. Today, however, the weather was perfect. The sun shone brightly, only occasionally obscured by a random cloud. There was a slight breeze coming off of Shipbreaker Bay. The temperature was warm without being too hot.

As if in response to the gorgeous weather, the game on the field, between Storm’s End College and Volantis University, had been a taut, low-scoring affair until the top of the sixth inning, when the visiting team broke the game open with three runs off of the Storm’s End’s starter. Had it not been for the catcher picking off an overeager runner trying to stretch his lead at first base to end the inning, the damage could have been worse.

The Storm’s End players came off the field at the end of the inning dejected and frustrated. Their coach tried to brighten their spirits by reminding them that there were still three and a half innings to play, three runs weren’t much, and Jon Redfort, Volantis’s starter, was getting up there in pitches. He wouldn’t be around much longer. Of course, what the coach didn’t mention was that the bullpen was just as dominant as the starter, but they knew it anyway.

The whispers in the dugout began after the leadoff hitter, Jason Hightower, struck out. One of the bench players caught a glimpse of someone he’d seen often the year before, when there had been four seniors in the starting lineup and a surefire first-round pick leading the pitching staff. He told the guy next to him, and word spread like wildfire down the bench.

There was a baseball scout at the ballpark.

At the other end of the bench from where the rumors began sat Brienne Tarth. Despite the fact that she’d made the final out in the fifth and it was unlikely she’d bat in this inning, she’d removed her catching gear because one never knew what might happen. Just because Redfort was doing well didn’t mean he wouldn’t fall prey to a bad inning, and then she’d have her chance.

The next batter walked, driving up Redfort’s pitch count and sparking hope on the bench, but the spark was nothing compared to the news of the scout. Speculation rose about who he was here to see—perhaps he was here for Steffon Seaworth even though he was only a sophomore and therefore a year away from draft eligibility? Maybe he was here to see Robin Arryn, although that wasn’t as likely.

Brienne didn’t hear the rumor directly, but instead caught enough snatches of the chatter to piece together what had everyone so excited. She didn’t point out the obvious to them, which was that the scout was probably here to see someone from Volantis’s team, probably Redfort, although why someone was sending a scout this late in the season was curious. Surely he’d been scouted multiple times by multiple teams, but that wasn’t to say that the scout wasn’t back to check Redfort’s stamina—would he be able to hold up under the grind of a whole major league season? Were his fastball and curve less sharp than they had been at the start of the year?

Brienne sighed so quietly that even if someone had been sitting next to her on the bench, she wouldn’t have been heard. Last year, when scouts were a frequent sighting at Lightning games, she’d wondered if any of them had noticed her, even a little. She knew she hadn’t been the best catcher last year, but she’d been damned good and felt she should draw some notice, but there hadn’t been a whisper of interest about her.

It didn’t come as a surprise that as the Lightning’s fortunes worsened, the scouts would dry up even though she was having a better season this year than last. And now, in their final game of the season, there was one lone scout. Who was probably here to see someone on the other team.

Despite a second walk to put two runners on with one out, the next two players struck out to end the inning. As Brienne put her gear back on, thoughts of the lone scout slipped away as she got back to the business of playing.

~*~*~*~*~*

Brienne stood in the on-deck circle half an inning later. She watched the action on the field. The Lightning had runners on first and second with nobody out, and from what she could see, Willem Lannister was determined to try and hit a three-run homer even though the smart thing would be to try and move the runners into scoring position for the heart of the order coming up, starting with her. But telling Willem that would do no good. Even if they’d been friendly, Willem always wanted to play the hero and more often than not, he wound up being the goat. It was what came from being a distant relation to baseball royalty, and although she had no experience with _that,_ she did understand the need to prove yourself worthy.

Brienne took a couple of practice swings, closed her eyes and thought about what pitches she was likely to face. Jon Redfort had been dominant through six innings, holding the Lightning to three hits and only one run, but now he was on the ropes. Brienne thought back to the scouting report she’d received on him.

_When in trouble, he falls too much in love with his fastball and tends to leave his curveball up._

Brienne heard a loud curse, followed by a groan from the crowd, and knew that Willem had struck out. Willem stormed back to the dugout, throwing her an ugly look as he did so. _Like you striking out is my fault,_ she thought irritably. She rolled her eyes, adjusted her batting gloves, and headed to the plate. She didn’t have time to stew about Willem. She needed to get out there and do what she could to make sure his strikeout wouldn’t matter in the end.

Brienne heard her name announced over the stadium’s tinny loudspeakers, and the smattering of applause. She dug into the batter’s box, took a couple more practice swings, and set herself in preparation of the first pitch. Would it be the curve? Not likely. Redfort’s curveball was his put-away pitch when he was ahead in the count. He rarely led off with it, though he might now because she wouldn’t be expecting it. He might try to announce his presence with authority on the first pitch—his fastball could get into the upper nineties and when he was on, he had great movement on it. But she had a feeling he was going to throw her off balance with a changeup.

Redfort shook off his catcher once…twice…and then nodded. He came set and threw the pitch.

A batter typically had less than half a second to determine many things—what type of pitch it was, estimated speed, location, and whether it was worth trying to hit. Even the best of hitters only guessed right approximately thirty percent of the time. Being a catcher herself probably didn’t give Brienne an advantage in this respect, but she wondered sometimes whether her experience behind the plate helped her recognize pitches a fraction of a microsecond faster than, say, an outfielder.

The pitch was a changeup, as she’d guessed, and it looked like it was going to cross the heart of the plate. _Hittable pitch._ Brienne swung.

The metallic _ping_ of her aluminum bat hitting the ball. The slight sting that rippled up her arms and into her shoulders as she made contact. Seeing the ball rise high in the air. She knew she’d hit it well. She threw the bat and sprinted toward first base, the loud cheers from the crowd telling her that the ball had not been caught. She picked up her first base coach, who signaled the need for her to run, so not a homer, either. As she rounded first and headed for second, she saw the ball being fielded by the centerfielder, who immediately threw toward second. Her helmet tumbled off her head as she ran hard for the bag, sliding in feet-first just under the tag.

“Safe!” the umpire shouted and signaled. The crowd cheered louder. Brienne put a hand up to the umpire to ask for time, which was granted. She got up from the ground and went back to get her helmet, jamming it back on as the crowd continued cheering. As she returned to second, she saw that the runner who’d been on first was now on third, so they’d scored only the one run on her double. That was fine—better to keep the rally going with only one out than risk getting the tying run thrown out at the plate.

Their opponent’s pitching coach and their catcher were on the mound, talking to Redfort. Probably reassuring him that he could still get out of this inning with only one run, and reminding him that Ned Storm, the Lightning’s cleanup hitter, was vulnerable to pitches low and outside. When they left the mound, Ned stepped into the batter’s box, and play resumed.

Brienne took a lead from second and prepared for anything that might happen, careful to make sure she didn’t stray too far from the bag and risk being picked off. She was the tying run, should Ned get something good to hit, and she’d be damned if she cost her team a potential win. With each pitch, she prepared to react to whatever Ned did.

As it happened, Ned did nothing but strike out on a pitch that nearly escaped the catcher, bringing up Steffon Seaworth as the Lightning’s last hope in this inning, and likely their last hope in the game. Brienne knew that lurking in the opposing team’s bullpen were a sharp set-up reliever, who would be followed by Tanton Fossoway, a closer who was just as likely to be the focus of that scout in the stands today as Jon Redfort.

Brienne once again prepared herself as Steffon stepped into the batter’s box. He was a decent hitter who liked the high hard ones, which Redfort, with his newly found confidence, wasn’t likely to give him.

 _Strike one,_ on the corner. _Ball one,_ in the dirt. _Strike two,_ a bit too inside, but the umpire was giving Redfort some leeway. Brienne wouldn’t mind that as much if he’d give their pitchers the same leeway. And then…

From her vantage point on second, Brienne knew what would happen the second she saw the location—a curveball that hung over the plate for hours and screamed, “HIT ME!”

Steffon did.

Brienne didn’t need the crowd’s reaction to tell her there was no need for her to sprint. She jogged briskly to third, slapping the third base coach’s outstretched hand as she headed for home plate. She slowed down as she headed into the dugout alongside Shagga Dolf, entering ahead of him and making an unimpeded beeline to the bench to put on her gear for the next inning as Shagga was greeted with high fives and words of praise. When Steffon entered, he was practically mobbed by his teammates. Brienne paused a moment, bit her lip, and buckled her leg guards in place.

~*~*~*~*~*

Despite a ninth inning scare from the Ravens after Robin Arryn, the Lightning’s closer, ignored Brienne’s pitch selection repeatedly because he believed that damned scout was here to see him and wanted to “show him what I’ve got,” never mind that what he had was good enough if he didn’t get too much into his own head, the Lightning managed to hold on for a 5-4 victory.

She felt a sharp pang of sadness. This was Storm’s End College’s last game of the year, and also the last of Brienne’s college career. They’d fallen short of making the Championship Tournament by two games, an embarrassing stumble for a team that had won the College World Series last year. Granted, last year’s team had had Loras Tyrell anchoring the pitching staff and an outstanding starting lineup. But four of the starters graduated and Loras left school after his junior year to become a first-round draft pick for Gulltown. Brienne, Ned, and the other upperclassmen had done their best, but the newer players couldn’t measure up to those who had left.

Brienne gathered up her catching gear for what she knew would be the last time. Although her offensive numbers were very good, and she was a nominee for the Duncan Pennytree Award for best collegiate catcher (which, in her less modest moments, she knew she should win this year because her defensive stats were the best in Division I ball, but knew that she wouldn’t), she would not have the anticipation that others in her situation would have of waiting for the Major League draft. She had not been scouted. No one was looking at her.

Some would pretend that it was because of SEC’s dramatic fall from the heights of last year, but in all honesty, it was because Brienne was a woman. If she’d been Brynden Tarth, she probably would’ve been drafted last year alongside Loras. Instead, she’d gone through her senior year of college knowing that she had one final season to savor the feeling of crossing the white lines of the baseball diamond and taking her place behind the plate.

And now it was all over.

Brienne knew it didn’t have to be the end. She’d received a couple of phone calls from the independent leagues from teams who were intrigued enough by her potential and progressive enough not to care that she was a woman. She’d spent several hours after getting these phone calls giving them serious thought, because the idea of playing baseball professionally, even if it was in the independent leagues, was tempting. The idea of getting _paid_ to play baseball was…well, almost beyond her comprehension.

Tempting, but ultimately, she knew that she couldn’t do it. Players in the independent leagues got paid a pittance. Almost all of them took jobs in the offseason to pay the bills. Some of them had to find a job during the season itself. Even though the minor leagues didn’t pay much more, at least they held the promise at a chance to make it to the majors.

Much as Brienne loved playing baseball, she had to be realistic. Her father had provided her support in every way he could—emotionally and financially. She couldn’t ask him to continue to provide the latter. She’d gotten her degree in accounting and would join her Uncle Endrew’s firm next month even though she wouldn’t sit for the CPA exam until July. She liked numbers and thought she’d do well, but…

_Maybe I’m not as devoted to baseball as I should be. Shouldn’t I think about joining the independents? It’s not out of the realm of possibility that I could end up signing with a major league team. I’ve overcome so much to get here. Am I really going to give it up now?_

Brienne walked into the bowels of the stadium, past the clubhouse where the rest of the team was celebrating their victory, past the coach’s offices where she could see him talking to someone sitting with his back to the window, down the long hallway to the women’s locker room. Brienne pushed open the door and flipped on the light, revealing the dingy room. She turned the lock on the door to make sure no one came in while she showered and got dressed.

Twenty minutes later, Brienne was dressed in an Estermont Sailors jersey, jeans, and sandals. Her limp, shoulder-length blond hair was scraped back in a ponytail, done without the aid of a mirror and slightly sloppy as a result. She picked up her bag, unlocked the door, and without a backward glance, left the empty room.

As she headed for the exit, she heard Coach Rivers call her name. She stopped just outside his office, noting that the man who’d been in there earlier was gone. Coach motioned her inside and, once she’d done so, waved at his chair. Brienne dropped her bag to the ground and sat down. “You hear about the scout during the game?” he asked

She nodded. “Figured he was here to see someone on the Volantis team.”

“Well, he was, but he stopped by after the game to talk to me about you.”

Brienne was glad she was sitting down. She felt her face grow hot. “Me?” she exclaimed. She almost asked why but bit her lip to keep from saying it.

“Uh-huh.” Coach’s eyes looked her over and Brienne waited for the usual insult. Something along the lines of _I don’t know why when there are several perfectly good guys on this team._ Oh, she supposed she should give him credit. He’d allowed her to try out four years ago and had named her to the team over the objections of just about everyone—her new teammates, the college administrators who insisted that they had girls’ softball for a reason, the public who thought her a joke. But that didn’t mean he was _happy_ about it. It meant he couldn’t deny what she was capable of.

But it also didn’t mean the rest of the world would feel the same way.

“Asked me what I thought of you. I told him that you were a hell of a catcher and a damned fine hitter. That you were willing to do what it took for the team to win even if it meant you didn’t get the bigger, flashier stats. That you studied hitters and scouting reports more than any kid I’d ever seen. That if there was any player on my team who could handle the pressure of the majors, it would be you.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t think he was actually here to scout you, just happened to see you today and wondered. It’ll probably come to nothing, but I thought you’d like to know that he did ask about you.” Coach paused. “And no one else.”

Brienne wondered exactly _how_ she was supposed to feel about that. Was she supposed to get her hopes up a little, because there was a possibility that maybe, in the final round of the draft, her name might be called? Was she supposed to be grateful that at least she’d got a look and a few questions, as it was the best she could expect?

Still, Coach Rivers could’ve said negative things about her, like how she’d nearly been thrown off the team over that damned bet her sophomore year—like she’d wanted those assholes to be betting money on which one of them could get her into bed. She supposed she had been to blame for Ben Bushy’s broken nose, but if he hadn’t wanted it broken, he shouldn’t have run into her fist. Or about how despite appreciating what she did on the field, none of the others ever treated her like she was part of the team.

Instead, he’d given her glowing praise. He was right that it wouldn’t make a difference in the end, but…yeah. It was nice that someone noticed her and thought to ask. But it wasn’t nearly enough.

She nodded. “Thank you, Coach. It means a lot to me to hear you say that,” she said, because her father had taught her good manners and a few of them had actually stuck.

Coach Rivers nodded and walked out of the office. Brienne watched him head into the men’s locker room, where he was greeted by a loud chorus of cheers. She listened for a couple of seconds but was unable to make anything out. She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the double doors for the last time, tears stinging her eyes as she stepped into the waning sunshine of what had been a beautiful day for a ball game.

~*~*~*~*~*

_One month later._

Whoever said summers on Tarth were paradise had clearly never worked in a cramped office when the air conditioning went out and the boss was the type of man who insisted that the work get done regardless. Brienne had tried to rush through finishing up the work for her first account, made three mistakes, and wound up spending more time on correcting them than she would have if she’d been methodical. Uncle Endrew had _tsk_ ed at her when he sent her back to her office, not his first time doing so and not likely to be his last.

She wondered if it was too late to call the independent leagues.

Her only consolation was that it was Friday, which meant she had two days to relax, sit in front of a fan on full blast, and put her feet up. She might even ask her father if he wanted to join her in having some of the wonderful Arbor Gold he’d had given her as a graduation gift.

As she turned the corner onto the street where she and her father lived in a modest split-level home, however, she discovered a logjam of cars parked willy-nilly all over, barely leaving a clear path for anyone who made the mistake of turning on this road to get through. Brienne frowned. Were those thrice-damned Freys having another party? She could’ve sworn the police had threatened to throw the lot of them in jail if they did that again, but most Freys weren’t known for their intelligence. She craned her head to see and it looked like their house was empty, so maybe it wasn’t them. In fact, if she didn’t know better, she’d think that that swarm of people were camped out…

…on _her_ lawn.

“What the hells?” Brienne murmured. She weaved her little pickup through the melee, nearly hitting two idiots who didn’t bother to look as they scurried across the road. The crush of people became impossible to maneuver through without running the risk of hitting them. As the realization sank in that whatever was happening was taking place at her home, Brienne felt nauseous. When she’d left that morning, Selwyn had appeared to be the picture of health, but who was to say what might’ve happened? She knew a kid in high school whose father had collapsed and died of a sudden aneurysm thirty minutes after going for his morning run.

It was clear that she wasn’t getting any further, and she had to know what had happened to her father. Brienne put her car in park and jumped out. She dodged people when she could, nearly ran them over when they refused to get out of her way fast enough, and yelled for her father several times. At first, she didn’t notice when people began to turn her way, or when the first cameras took her picture. But when she found her path to her front porch blocked by a crowd of people yelling her name and calling questions she couldn’t comprehend, Brienne had no choice but to stop.

“What’s going on?” she asked, tears in her eyes. “Did something happen to my dad? Is he all right? Please!”

“Brienne!”

_“Brienne!”_

“Congratulations! How does it feel…”

“…drafted by a major league team…” 

“…King’s Landing Royals?”

“…sixteenth round…”

“Brienne! Hey, over here!”

“…gods, she’s not much of a looker, is she?...”

Brienne felt dizzy, her head whipping this way and that as the questions and comments bombarded her. She felt much the way she had all those years ago when she came home and found her father sitting on the front porch that now she couldn’t get to, his head in his hands as he sobbed and tried to explain that her mother and brother had died in a car crash.

“QUIET!!!”

An unexpected hush fell over the crowd. Brienne looked toward where the noise had originated, and thanks be to every god from the old ones to the drowned ones, there was her father.

People who didn’t know the family but saw Brienne always assumed she got her physique and her looks from her father. They were half right. Selwyn found it hilarious when people actually met him and had difficulty reconciling his five-foot-eight, one-hundred-and-forty-pound frame with being the proud father of a daughter who stood six-foot-six and outweighed him by nearly eighty pounds. But despite not being tall or burly, Selwyn knew how to cut a path wherever he went, which was precisely what he did now. The crowd parted to let him through, and finally, he was before her.

Brienne threw herself into his arms in relief, nearly knocking him over and eliciting a few chuckles from the gathered crowd. “Thank gods you’re all right,” she said. “When I saw all these people I thought…”

“Yes, I’m all right, nothing wrong with me today at any rate.” He pulled away from her and took a step back. “Brienne, why didn’t you answer your phone?”

Brienne checked her back pocket and frowned. “Uh…” She tried to remember where she’d last set it but came up empty. “I think I may have lost it.”

Selwyn chuckled. “No wonder I’ve been getting so many calls looking for you.” He glanced around them at the ravening wolves who were, for some reason, were staying silent. When Selwyn turned back to her, the look of pride on his face startled her because she couldn’t think of anything she’d done to warrant it, at least not today. Just ask Uncle Endrew. “Sweetling…these people are here to talk to you. The King’s Landing Royals drafted you in the sixteenth round today.”

And with that, Brienne heard the click of at least fifty cameras going off, her stunned expression at the news being captured for the ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baseball notes:
> 
> I fudged a little bit about when the draft takes place in the story. College baseball's regular season ends at the end of May, and the MLB draft is held a little over a week later. For the purposes of this story, however, the draft takes place in early July. Amateur players can be drafted directly out of high school, but once they begin to play for a college team, they have to wait until their junior year before they can be drafted.
> 
> Kim Ng, who is quoted at the start of this chapter, recently became the general manager for the Florida Marlins. She's the first woman to be named to the position in MLB history.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great response to the start of this story! I really appreciate everyone taking time to leave comments and kudos--they are the lifeblood of any writer. :)
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://writergirl2011.tumblr.com)

“Baseball life is a tough life on the family.”  
Nolan Ryan

~*~

The drive from Lannisport, where this year’s All-Star Game was being held, to Casterly Rock was a leisurely forty-five minutes—less if one ignored the posted speed limits because a car such as the sleek, sporty Direwolf couldn’t be restricted in such a way. Jaime Lannister made it in half an hour, albeit with two Westerlands Watch patrol cars in fast pursuit after he blew past their speed traps. Not so strangely enough, the minute he turned onto the long road leading to the stone behemoth the Lannisters had been calling home since Lann the Clever, the patrol cars melted away as if an unseen hand had erased them from his rearview mirror, and Jaime drove the last half mile unaccompanied.

The gates guarding the castle opened automatically, allowing Jaime to enter without having to stop. He drove straight toward the enormous garage that had once housed thousands of the Lannister army, wondering as he pulled into an empty spot next to his father’s prized Tobho Mott armored car how many men had called this building home, and what they would think of what it was used for today. He killed the engine, pocketed the keys, and got out of the car. If he’d had time, Jaime would’ve stopped to see if his father had made any new acquisitions, but he was running late. Dinner would start in…Jaime checked his watch…ten minutes, so he’d already missed most of cocktail hour. Just as well, since he wasn’t much of a drinker and it was never a good idea to be half under the table before he even got to the table.

Jaime briskly walked from the garage to the front entrance of the house, the gentle breeze coming from the bay rifling through his hair like Cersei’s fingers. The door opened before he’d made it to the top step. Once inside, he smiled at the doorman and headed through the tastefully decorated foyer to the front parlor, where he knew the assembled guests would be.

He paused at the entrance to the parlor, taking in the lay of the land. It wasn’t that Jaime didn’t love his family, or at least not most of it, but Lannister family gatherings often involved verbal bloodshed and it was always good to know what players were there before devising a strategy for how to survive the night.

His brother, Tyrion, sat on the arm rest of a monstrously expensive sofa, drawing the ire of their father, which he was gleefully ignoring. Jaime’s eyes drifted about the room and found his aunt, Genna Frey, who was worth at least half a dozen barbed zingers during the meal. Hopefully none of them would be aimed at him. His uncle, Kevan, who managed the Lannisport Lions. He would be safe to talk to, as long as Jaime’s father didn’t use it as an excuse to start haranguing Jaime about his pending free agency.

His father.

No matter where he was in a room, Tywin Lannister commanded a presence. In this room, he stood next to a tall, portly man that Jaime recognized instantly with an inner groan. It was his cousin, Cleos Frey. Jaime should’ve figured that if Genna was here, so would Cleos, who was currently on the injured list with a fractured toe. It wasn’t that Cleos was a dick or anything like that, but he was not the brightest person in the clubhouse and if it hadn’t been for his uncanny ability to get out left-handed hitters, he would have no business on a baseball team. Jaime made a note to himself to avoid Cleos as best he could.

A tall, skinny, dark-haired boy of thirteen sat at the opposite end of the sofa from Tyrion, shooting him glares when he wasn’t looking longingly at the glasses of champagne on offer. Joffrey, Cersei’s eldest son, was here, but Jaime knew Robert was not, as he would be up to his eyeballs in making sure the All-Star festivities went off without a hitch.

Finally, there was…

_Cersei._

Tall, lithe, golden and beautiful, she filled his vision until everyone else receded into the background. She wore her golden curls in a chignon with curly wisps framing her face. Her black halter dress was perhaps a bit much for a casual family dinner, but Jaime knew she’d worn it to drive him crazy and he didn’t mind one bit.

“You’re late,” Tywin announced, pulling Jaime out of his reverie. “The message I sent to you clearly said cocktails at five, dinner at six, yet here you are, just in time for dinner.”

Jaime smiled at his father. “You should consider yourselves lucky I’m here at all,” he said. “My flight was delayed by an hour and then I had to get settled into the hotel. Then I ran into Aurane Waters, who I think was angling for an invitation tonight though I have no idea how he heard about it, and just managed to get free to get here on time for dinner.”

Tyrion snorted, drawing a cold look from Tywin.

Jaime pretended to look at the clock as though he had no idea what time it was. “Looks like I have just enough time for a drink.” One of the house staff approached with a glass of champagne on a tray. Jaime took the glass and took a sip. “Shall we go in to dinner?”

~*~*~*~*~*

Lannister family dinners always began with the neutral topics before moving on to the more lethal ones. The recent drama from the annual Major League Baseball draft, held at the start of the week, seemed to be the perfect conversation starter.

“I still can’t believe someone drafted a woman,” Kevan commented as his plate was set in front of him. “It’s outrageous.” 

“The whole thing is a joke, cooked up by Petyr Baelish as a publicity stunt,” Tywin said as he cut into his medium-rare steak. Jaime, at the other end of the table from his father, stared longingly as the juices pooled underneath it before turning back to his perfectly cooked salmon and steamed asparagus. Jaime swallowed a bite of the asparagus and smiled. It didn’t matter where he went, he never found anyone who could cook quite like Gareth, and he’d been in just about every four-star restaurant in Westeros _and_ Essos. It almost made up for him not being able to have steak.

Tywin continued talking after he’d swallowed his bite of food. “The idea that a woman can play professional baseball at anything near the level of men is preposterous. Their bodies are built differently than men’s. They aren’t designed to have the same talents and abilities men do. They don’t have the strength or stamina to withstand an entire baseball season, and especially not in a position that takes as much out of a player as catcher. This girl may have had enough to get her on a third-rate college team, but she’s nowhere near good enough for the majors.”

“It’s unnatural for a woman to play a man’s sport,” Cersei, sitting at Tywin’s right, agreed. “She should’ve stuck to softball.”

“Storm’s End won the College World Series last year,” Tyrion mused as he swirled his wine around in the glass. “Four players from that team were drafted, and Loras Tyrell’s a lock to be called up within the next year or so. Not exactly a ‘third-rate college team,’ even if they didn’t do so well after that bunch left. I kept my eye on her this season. She started most of the games last year and all of them this year, posted very good offensive numbers, and was rated the best defensive catcher in Division I. Should’ve won the Pennytree, but apparently there’s a little-known clause that requires the winner to have a cock.”

“Watch your tongue! There are children at the table.” Cersei glared at her younger brother, who smiled sardonically and raised his wineglass to her before taking a large drink.

“Like I don’t know what a cock is,” Joffrey muttered with a roll of his eyes.

“Joffrey.” Tywin didn’t raise his voice, but he didn’t need to. Joffrey immediately straightened in his chair and found the food on his plate much more fascinating than what was going on around him.

“I don’t think Baelish did it just for publicity,” Cleos said, mouth half-full of steak. Jaime tried not to envy _him_ for not caring about staying in prime shape despite being an athlete. “Tyrion’s right. She is talented. All this about women not being able to play because their bodies are different is nonsense. I won’t deny there are differences above and beyond the obvious, but when it comes down to it, if a woman can hit for average and field her position well, why shouldn’t she play?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cleos,” Tywin said. “The differences aren’t just physical, they’re mental as well. The baseball season is grueling on the men. Throw in a woman’s emotional state and I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a nervous breakdown within a month.”

“Probably when her moonblood’s on her,” Joffrey said with a snicker.

“Joffrey!” Cersei glared at Tyrion again, as if he had any sort of influence on his nephew.

“Young man, if you can’t behave in a civilized manner, you’ll finish your meal in the kitchen with your brother and sister,” Tywin said. Jaime perked up at hearing that Myrcella and Tommen were there. Maybe he’d drop into the kitchen before he left to say hello.

Someone set their wineglass down with such force that there was a cracking sound.

“How in the seven hells did you ever manage to convince Joanna to marry you with that attitude?” Genna asked, glaring at Tywin. “Women are too emotional to play baseball? I could call up half a dozen YouTube compilations of men getting ejected from games after behaving like immature schoolboys. I’ll bet Brienne Tarth didn’t get ejected once in her college career.”

“You’d be right,” Tyrion said.

“You sound like you did your homework on this girl,” Tywin said. “She wasn’t on our draft board, Tyrion. Why did you bother?”

“She intrigues me.” Tyrion fiddled with his fork before setting it down. “She’s not your typical woman, it’s true, but I think even if she weren’t as big as she is, we’d be having this conversation.”

“Are we sure she’s a woman?” Cersei laughed, a cruel lash of sound. “I saw those pictures taken of her. She’s built like a tree trunk and has the face to match. Gods, I can’t believe any of the cameras that got them survived without breaking. And those eyes of hers! Huge, creepy cow eyes, all those freckles, and why doesn’t she do anything about those teeth?”

Jaime had seen one of those photos and had to agree with Cersei on every point but one, because he’d thought her eyes were rather pretty, although there was no way they were that blue in person.

“I saw one of the videos and expected her to start mooing!” Cersei laughed again and took a longer drink of wine.

“She was perfectly nice to me when I met her last year,” Cleos said. Everyone turned to look at him and he shrugged. “I went to the Storm’s End alumni game. She was one of the current team members who played with us. Very sweet girl. She even gave me some suggestions about bunting which I intend to put into practice soon.”

Jaime just managed to contain his snort. The likelihood that Cleos, a left-handed specialist who usually got pulled before an inning was over unless he was the one who ended it by doing his job, would ever be called on to bat was ridiculous. _Gods, please don’t ever let things get to the point where the fate of a ballgame rests on the bunting ability of Cleos Frey,_ Jaime thought.

“And she was drafted by the _Royals._ Jaime, you could wind up on a team with her. If I were you, I’d refuse to do it. Every self-respecting baseball player should.” Cersei picked at the plain bunch of lettuce leaves on her plate.

“Every self-respecting baseball player wouldn’t have a choice,” Jaime said mildly, taking a drink of his champagne. 

Cersei looked at him with a small frown. “I heard Loras Tyrell did that when they were in college together and nothing happened to him. I don’t see how this would be any different.”

Jaime sighed. He loved his sister dearly, but he wished she would stay out of this debate. She liked to think she knew a lot about how the baseball business went, but she didn’t know half of what she thought she did and a good chunk of what she did know was wrong.

“The difference is in what the MLB owners will let players get away with compared to a college coach and his star pitcher,” Jaime said, hoping he didn’t sound as frustrated as he felt. “SEC didn’t do Loras Tyrell any favors by indulging him, but he made a compelling argument and if he believed that the backup catcher handled him better, they were going to make sure he got what he wanted. It didn’t do harm to the team overall, but the coach should’ve told him to suck it up and deal with the catcher who would give the team a better chance of winning. The players’ union doesn’t get to dictate to the owners who they draft or to the managers and coaches who they call up to play. If Brienne Tarth makes it to the majors, the players will have to accept it.” 

“Maybe they should push the issue instead of being forced to play ball with a woman. Better still, the other owners should rise up, block this move, and denounce Baelish for the publicity-seeking hound he is.”

“Cersei, that is possibly the most foolish thing you’ve said in a while,” Tyrion said, again toasting Cersei with his wineglass. “For one thing, any attempts to override Baelish’s choice would result in a public relations nightmare that the MLB might never recover from.”

“The league can handle it. It survived the steroid era, the sign-stealing debacle, _and_ the hazing scandals.” Jaime felt his stomach clench a little at her mention of the last one, because everyone knew how that had been revealed. He knocked back the last of his drink and nodded to one of the staff for something else. He was brought white wine, which paired perfectly with his salmon.

Tyrion chuckled, and Jaime could see Cersei bristling. “Brienne Tarth has already gone to court to fight for her right to play baseball—and won. She’s not going to be scared off so easily. And aside from our dear father, I’ll be surprised if any of the other owners voice a strong objection to having her in the league, even if privately they think it a terrible idea. Maybe you haven’t seen the public reaction to Brienne Tarth being drafted, but I have. And I can tell you that while there is a faction of those whose opinions about women playing baseball are…behind the times,” Tyrion gave his father a look out of the corner of his eye, “there are a lot more people who are excited that she’s breaking the gender barrier.”

“The foolish masses,” she sneered.

“I wouldn’t mock them if I were you. They’re the ones who buy the tickets and souvenirs that keep you in gold and rubies, _Mrs. Baratheon._ Baseball’s a sport that’s been on the decline with the public in the last decade. Brienne Tarth gives people a reason to start talking about it. She gives all the little tomboys out there playing baseball with the boys someone to look up to and aspire to be.”

When faced with a logical argument, Cersei did what she always did: ignored it. She turned back to Jaime. “Can you honestly say, as you sit here now, that you want to play baseball with a woman?”

Jaime fiddled with the stem of his wineglass. He hadn’t given the matter much thought. Of course, there had been an uproar in the locker room when the pick was announced, but their manager had been proactive in gathering the team together and giving them a strongly worded suggestion not to comment when asked. Which they had been. Repeatedly. And since Barristan Selmy wasn’t a man any of them wanted to piss off, they’d followed his instructions and kept their mouths shut.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Jaime said after a moment’s pause, “because it isn’t going to happen. Not in any meaningful way.”

“What do you mean by that? She’s been drafted. If she’s as crazy about baseball as Tyrion would have us believe, she’ll jump at the chance to keep playing.” There was a strange light in Cersei’s eyes. “And, as Tyrion pointed out, she’ll be one of the most famous women in the world, which is something a woman like her would never achieve, given the way she looks.”

“She’s been drafted, yes, along with eleven hundred and ninety-nine other players. Nearly half of those players were drafted before she was, indicating that she’s got some talent, enough for Baelish and company to think she’s worth taking another look at, but they didn’t think she had enough talent to draft her sooner, so it’s not going to be a serious investment.” Jaime turned to look at his brother. “You like stats, Tyrion, so tell me—out of those twelve hundred, what percentage are likely to make it to the Show?”

“About one in five,” Tyrion answered.

“Most of that coming from the early rounds. What’s the percentage when you hit the sixteenth round?”

Tyrion’s lips quirked into something that might be called a smile. “Approximately one in ten, and probably even less.”

“Exactly. If she were a man, she’d have the odds against her. However, her being a woman means that in all likelihood, she _will_ be called up at some point as a novelty. She’ll get a few at-bats in situations that won’t impact a game. Maybe she’ll even start a getaway game when Selmy wants to rest Danwell Frey. But that’ll be it. The players will put up with her because it’ll be obvious why she’s there. And when that season ends, she’ll be released to return to obscurity. End of story. Baelish gets to look good by promoting gender equality without having to deal with the hassle of actually putting a woman on his 40-man roster for longer than the September call-ups.” Jaime shrugged. “So to answer your question, Cersei, I’ll do what I have to do because I know why Baelish is doing what he’s doing. I think it’s ridiculous and I dread thinking what he’ll come up with next, but this is drawing interest in baseball that’s been leeched away over the last decade by other sports.”

“So if Baelish decided that you guys needed to play naked as your nameday, you’d do that, too?” Cersei asked. “After all, it would be for the good of the game.”

Most at the table laughed, Genna loudest of all. Tywin looked sour and Cleos looked befuddled, as usual, and Tywin’s expression was thunderous as he glared at his oldest child, though he said nothing.

Jaime grinned. “As long as he allowed me to wear a jock strap.” He raised his glass to her and took a drink of his wine and was pleased to see her smile.

“Don’t you think it would be a good idea if we also wore cleats?” Cleos asked. “At least the pitchers. I’d slide off the mound without my cleats.”

As Tyrion laughed so hard he nearly choked, Tywin said, “If we could bring this conversation back to something resembling sanity, you raise a good point, Jaime. The girl is nothing but a stunt. She has to know it, and if she’s willing to let herself be used that way, then she’s just another publicity whore. Yet another reason why Baelish should’ve been stopped before he drafted her.”

“Look at it this way, Father,” Tyrion said, wiping his eyes with his napkin. “By selecting someone who is, in your opinion, never going to make a meaningful contribution to the Royals, Baelish wasted a draft pick. If he’d decided to go with someone else, that person could’ve gone on to be the next Dunk the Lunk. Instead, he’s got a show pony.”

“True, but think about the power that show pony will give him. Even if Brienne Tarth does nothing more than sit on the Royals’ bench, she’ll get a number. Jerseys with that number and her name across the back will be on sale, and every one of those little baseball-loving girls you said would look up to her will want one. Their mothers will want one, too. Their ticket sales will go through the roof. Television ratings will soar. Baelish will be able to parlay that into a better television revenue deal when their current contract is up. In fact, I won’t be surprised if her appearance in the majors coincides with the negotiations. Put it together and that adds up to a lot more money in the Royals’ coffers. Money they can then use to acquire the best free agents to improve their team.” Tywin’s pale green eyes bore into his youngest son. “The problem with you, Tyrion, is that you don’t think about the long-term.”

Jaime noted the flush that crept up Tyrion’s neck at the rebuke and the small smirk on Cersei’s lips. “Then I suppose I better hope she’s called up to the Show soon before my contract negotiations next year, huh?” he said. “More money for me. What say you, Cleos?”

“I—I wouldn’t mind more money, but I wouldn’t want someone to be used in such a way to get it,” Cleos replied. “And she’s not a whore, Tywin. She’s a very nice girl.”

Tywin turned his glare on Jaime, Tyrion gave him a thankful look, Cersei rolled her eyes, and Genna thoughtfully changed the topic of conversation to something less incendiary to cleanse everyone’s palate before the next round.

~*~*~*~*~*

Jaime made the return trip from Casterly Rock in twenty-five minutes, not because he was testing out the speed and power of his car but because he’d been so angry that his foot had mashed the gas pedal to the floor. Dinner had gone surprisingly well, all things considered, but after the meal Tywin had pulled him aside when Jaime had been on his way to greet Cersei’s younger two children in order to give him a lecture about family loyalty and what was expected of him when he became a free agent after next season.

In all honesty, Jaime had little interest in playing for his father. After the debacle with Aerys, Jaime had been traded to Pyke and spent four miserable years on a team that frequently dwelled in the Westerosi North basement in the standings. Tywin had been so sure that Jaime would come running home at the first opportunity that he’d made an insulting offer to his then-agent, who, being a relative, had strongly encouraged Jaime to accept it. Jaime knew his worth better than that. He fired his agent immediately, signed with Varys Spyder, and they’d negotiated a contract with the Royals that would be up next year.

Tywin had been furious that Jaime had spurned the chance to play for his family team. Jaime had been furious that his father tried to lowball him because he was his son. Although outwardly they’d mended their fences, Jaime had always known that when free agency rolled around again, Tywin would expect him to sign with the Lions. However, Jaime wasn’t backing down. As he’d told his father on several occasions, he wasn’t against playing for the team, though privately he suspected it might be something of a nightmare. But he wasn’t giving his father a hometown discount to do it.

“I might’ve once,” he’d told his father tonight, “but after that shit you tried to pull on me last time, forget it. You’ll get your chance just like everyone else, but if the deal isn’t what I want, I’m not coming to Lannisport.”

“Perhaps you’ll reconsider after you’ve had more time to think about it,” Tywin said, and the only hint that he’d heard a word of what Jaime had said was the grim set of his mouth. “I’m sure we’ll have the best offer you’ll get. Possibly even the only offer.”

Jaime knew better than to let his father see he’d gotten to him, so he’d waited to take his anger and aggression out on the road back to his hotel.

The threat had been bullshit, of course. With the exception of Dragonstone and Braavos, Jaime knew that every other team in the league would be thrilled to have him, and a few of them were likely to agree to his terms. And if for some reason only one offer arose, then he knew exactly what he would do. In addition to being the best agent in the business, Varys had a vast network of spies who could ferret out dirty dealings within days. Jaime made a note to himself to let Varys know what Tyrion had said so he’d have feelers out for any signs of collusion.

Jaime pulled into the valet parking of his hotel and handed the keys over to the young man waiting to do something. The boy looked at the car with admiration, and Jaime smiled. Although he’d never been a parking attendant, he remembered longing for amazing cars almost as much as he longed for a baseball career. He tipped the boy handsomely and headed for the entrance to the hotel.

Once in his luxurious suite of rooms, Jaime took his first deep breath of the evening. He loved his family, but sometimes they drove him mad. Even Cersei and Tyrion, the two he loved most. Why could they not try to get along, if only for his sake? Jaime almost wished he’d allowed himself to get drunk so he could obliterate the memory of their ongoing squabbling.

Jaime slipped out of his expensive tailored suit and tossed it into an empty chair, but then something occurred to him, so he hurried back into it. He opted to keep the tie off and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He reclined on the bed and flipped on _SportsCenter_ to catch today’s highlights from around the league. He knew the Royals had lost their game—damned Osmund Kettleblack compounded a crucial error in the field with going 0-for-4 with three strikeouts. But he hoped that their division rival, Sunspear, also lost so that the Royals went into the break in first place alone.

Twenty minutes later there was a knock at his door. Jaime got lazily to his feet and slowly made his way over, knowing it was risking another, louder knock but willing to take the chance. He grinned as, sure enough, someone knocked again with more force. He opened the door slowly and smiled.

Cersei stood framed in the doorway, fingers on either side of the frame, nails tapping impatiently. He shook his head at her but smiled at her audacity.

“You’re begging to get caught, knocking like that,” he said as he stepped aside and let her walk into his room. “One of these days, Robert’s going to figure out that something’s going on.”

“Between his precious baseball leagues and his precious bourbon, Robert barely has time to notice what day it is, much less what his wife is doing,” Cersei replied.

Jaime barely had the door closed before Cersei pounced, pressing her body against his and claiming his mouth in a savage kiss. “Still a risk,” he said breathlessly when she let him go. “Just because Robert’s oblivious doesn’t mean others are.”

Cersei stepped back, reached behind her neck and undid the tie of her halter top, revealing her glorious breasts. “Do you want to waste our time talking, or fucking?”

Jaime laughed and reached for her.

Afterwards, as they lay in bed together, Cersei asked, “What did Father want with you after dinner?”

Jaime propped himself up on a couple of pillows. “What do you think? The usual about how it’s my duty to come play for the Lions after my contract’s up next year.”

Cersei frowned at him. “You’re not going to do it, are you? You wouldn’t go so far away from me?”

Jaime shrugged. “Depends on the deal. After last time, Father’s well aware that I’m not going to undervalue myself so he can save a few bucks. I wasn’t gullible then, and I have better representation now.”

“Father will throw whatever it takes at you,” Cersei said, sitting up. “He’s determined to see you in a Lions uniform. Jaime, if you play for anyone other than the Royals, we’ll never see each other. Is that what you want?”

“Well, this time it’s about more than money. This time, I want a no-trade clause.” This time, he gave her the smile that _Westerosi Quarterly_ had described as “devilishly devious.” They both knew Tywin had never allowed any player a no-trade clause, and it was highly unlikely he’d start with Jaime.

Cersei blinked, then grabbed one of the pillows behind him and hit him with it. Jaime laughed.

“You dick.” She hit him twice more before chucking the pillow aside and kissing him. After several more kisses, she pulled back and said, “Promise me you’ll stay with the Royals.”

“Of course, I’m not going anywhere,” Jaime said. “I’m not just asking for a no-trade clause to piss off Father. I don’t want to risk being sent away from you. Not after last time.”

“Good,” Cersei said. As Jaime leaned in for another kiss, she pulled away. “I have to get back before anyone notices I’m missing. I don’t see why you insisted on staying here when Casterly Rock is less than an hour’s drive away.”

“You know why,” Jaime said.

Cersei got out of bed and reached for her dress, lying in a heap on the floor. “Something about ‘camaraderie, male bonding, beer belching, blah blah bullshit.’” She rolled her eyes before starting to shimmy into the dress.

“Hey! How would you feel if I described those women’s bonding retreats you hold every couple of months as ‘blah blah bullshit?’”

Cersei retied the top of her dress and stared at him. “Those retreats _are_ bullshit.”

He chuckled and put his arms behind his head. “If only your devoted followers could hear you now.”

“They’d still think they were the transcendental experience I say they are.” Cersei gave him a smug smile. “I won’t be able to get away the rest of the break, but we’ll figure something out once we’re back in King’s Landing.” She slipped into her heels, walked over to his side of the bed, and gave him one last kiss. “Have fun this week.”

“I will. Bullshit and all.” He watched as she slipped out of his hotel room much quieter than she’d entered, hoping she’d turn back and give him one last longing look. She didn’t, of course—that would be too risky.

Jaime lay back in his bed and tried not to long for a day when she’d be able to stay with him the whole night. His dreams, when he finally slept, were unsettled and when he woke the next morning, he didn’t feel rested and he couldn’t quite figure out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Baseball Notes and Trivia:**
> 
> "The Show" is how many players, especially those in the minors, refer to the Major Leagues.
> 
> Regarding the number of players drafted--before COVID-19, a baseball draft went 40 rounds, and since baseball currently has 30 teams, that makes for 1200 players overall. How things are going to be impacted in the real MLB due to COVID-19 has yet to be determined--this year, they only had five rounds of the draft, and I think next year they're only expanding it to 20 rounds, so a lot of kids are going to miss their chance to play.
> 
> Although the odds against lower-round draft picks making the majors, much less doing well, are slim--as Tyrion points out--they're not impossible. Later-round picks who have gone on to great things include Nolan Ryan (12th round pick), Albert Pujols (13th round pick), and John Smoltz (22nd round pick). But the greatest long-shot of all time? Mike Piazza, who was drafted in the 62nd round in 1988 and went on to be inducted into the Hall of Fame.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I know it's been a couple of weeks and I apologize for the delay, but I got caught up in my writing for the festive exchange and then a couple of stocking stuffers. Then I had to get caught up on reading what everyone else wrote!! :D
> 
> So with the exchanges over, I should be able to get back to posting this story weekly. My thanks, as ever, go out to waxedpaperdoor for her beta skills!!
> 
> [I'm on Tumblr!!](https://writergirl2011.tumblr.com)

"Find something you love and go after it with all of your heart."  
~~Jim Abbott

~*~

Brienne felt like she’d become a prisoner in her own home.

She’d thought that the furor over her becoming the first woman ever selected in the MLB draft would die down after a day or two. Yet here it was, a week later, and Brienne couldn’t even step out onto her front porch without seeing someone with a camera at the ready to snap a picture. Even sitting on her back patio hadn’t worked out—someone had snuck into her neighbor’s yard and started yelling questions at her. Brienne had scurried back inside and up to her room, tears in her eyes.

About the only two places outside the house where she felt safe were her gym, where the tall, muscle-bound owner had chased away the reporters who tried to enter and refused to allow anyone who couldn’t provide proof of residence to become new members, and her uncle’s accounting firm, where…well, Uncle Endrew might only be five-foot-six, but he had a way of looking at people that convinced them he was _not_ someone they wanted to cross.

“This is ridiculous,” Selwyn said on the morning of Day Eight of the Siege. “Brienne, holing up in here is fueling their curiosity. You need to get out of the house, accept the fact that you’re now in the public eye, and try to live as normal a life as possible.”

“I know,” Brienne said, knowing she sounded sullen and not caring.

Selwyn dragged her outside to the back patio for breakfast, swearing to her that their neighbors had threatened legal action if they found any reporters or photographers on their property. “The Freys even threatened to invite them to their next wedding,” Selwyn added as he set the tray with bagels, cream cheese, milk, and juice on the wicker table between the matching chairs. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked pointedly at Brienne’s usual spot. She sat down and curled her long legs under her, face downturned.

Selwyn sat in the other chair. “Come on. You have to admit that that was kind of funny,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” Brienne reached for one of the bagels, which she broke in half. She absentmindedly began tearing one half into small pieces, tossing them out into the yard.

“Brienne Cassana Tarth, if we end up with bird shit all over the place because of that, I will turn you over my knee, draft pick or no. Now eat.”

The next piece went into her mouth instead to the ground. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father’s worried look and tried to take more of an interest in the bagel, but she tasted nothing.

“Sweetling, what’s wrong? You were drafted by a major league team. Do you know how lucky you are?”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

“It doesn’t seem like you do, so let me put this in perspective for you. Out of the hundreds of thousands of kids who play high school baseball, only a fraction of them play in college. And out of the tens of thousands who play college ball, only twelve hundred of them get drafted. This year, you are one of those twelve hundred. Forget the whole ‘first woman drafted by a major league team’ nonsense. You weren’t drafted because of that or in spite of it. Someone realized how remarkably talented you are and decided you deserved a shot to play professional baseball. Not the independent leagues, but the _majors._ Why are you acting like someone died when you should be on cloud nine?”

Brienne set the bagel back onto the tray. “Because I can’t do it.”

Selwyn didn’t speak, forcing Brienne to look over at him. He looked mystified. “You can’t do it? What do you mean? Are you injured? Sick?”

“No, there’s nothing physically wrong with me,” she said. “I have to be realistic, Dad. The same reasons that kept me from joining an independent league are there for playing in the minors. The pay is terrible. I’d have to rely on you for rent, which wouldn’t be cheap, because I wouldn’t be able to find a roommate on the team to defray the costs. I’d have to get a job in the off-season, and I won’t find anything that pays well because they know I won’t be around long. I can hardly ask Uncle Endrew to keep me on because I’d be gone when he needed me most. And for what? The likelihood is slim that I’ll ever get called up. I’ll have thrown away seven years of my life. Seven years that I could’ve used to build a solid foundation for my future.”

Selwyn again was silent, a small frown on his face.

“I always knew my time playing baseball would end with college. I never pretended I would be drafted except in my wildest dreams, because it was never going to happen. I’d accepted that and was fine with it. I was settling into my new life. Then some GM got a wild hair and decided to draft me, and suddenly here are all these wild dreams that seem like they’re coming true. But they’re not. They’re only prolonging the inevitable, and I can’t let myself get hurt like that.”

“You’re afraid,” Selwyn said quietly. “You’re afraid to want this because it might not end with you in a major league uniform.”

An automatic refusal sprang to Brienne’s lips, because she’d never been afraid to face life’s challenges. She might wish things had been a little easier for her when it came to playing ball, but she’d never whined about the difficulty. She’d just put her head down and practiced even harder so she’d be the best she could be.

“Yes,” she admitted.

Selwyn was quiet for a minute. “I don’t have a prepared speech or a story where I tell you about something I wanted, something I was good at, but took the safe option and always regretted it.” He huffed out a short laugh. “I suppose I should’ve had something, but I guess I was like you and didn’t think this would happen. I knew our miracle was that you got to play baseball as long as you did. And now I find myself in the position of having to convince you that you need to give this a try.”

“You can’t afford to help me,” Brienne said. “It was bad enough that I went to Storm’s End when I knew I should’ve gone somewhere cheaper or tried harder at softball so I could’ve gotten a scholarship—”

“Stop right there. I would’ve paid ten times what I did to SEC for your education alone. That you got to play baseball for a top-tier team was a bonus. As for supporting you while you try to make the majors, you make it sound like I’m living paycheck to paycheck. I’m not as rich as some on Tarth, but my house is paid for, I don’t take vacations every year, and my only vices are fishing and season tickets for the Pirates. I think I can help you out with expenses if need be.”

“For seven years?”

“Who says it has to be for seven years?” Selwyn asked. “Just because a person can play in the farm system for seven years before being released doesn’t mean you have to go the distance. You’ll know in a couple of years if you’re going anywhere or not. If you think you are, stick it out longer. If not, then you can retire and come home to…well…”

Brienne looked at him suspiciously. “To what?”

“Now don’t get mad, but your Uncle Endrew hasn’t been pleased with how things are going so far at the firm.” Brienne opened her mouth to protest but Selwyn held up a hand. “I explained to him that you were having trouble adjusting to your post-college life and to give you some time, and obviously he wasn’t going to fire you after just a few weeks of working with him. But he could tell that your heart wasn’t in what you were doing.” He smiled ruefully. “And honestly, sweetling, I never believed you were cut out to be an accountant. It was convenient for you to get your degree in, but you’re meant for more than being stuck in an office for eight hours a day.”

“I like numbers,” Brienne protested.

“Yeah, well, I like sitting in a bakery when they’re making bread, but it doesn’t mean that I can bake.”

“Dad. That’s a terrible analogy.”

“I know. I was hoping you’d laugh a little. It hurts me to see you so miserable this week when you should be meeting with agents, talking about a signing bonus, and packing your bags for the Royals’ extended spring training.”

“Agents? Signing bonuses?” Brienne snorted. “I was drafted in the _sixteenth round._ What does a sixteenth-round pick need with an agent? What would my signing bonus be—a month’s worth of free meals at Hot Pie’s or the hundred-dragon gift certificate for Stinking Goose Liquors?”

Selwyn looked startled but then laughed. “Who do you think has been blowing up my cell phone this week when they couldn’t reach you? Did you ever find your phone?”

“The press,” Brienne said sourly, but her father’s incredulity made her wonder if she might be a little wrong. 

“Well, yes, but there have also been about a dozen calls from agents wanting to represent the first female baseball player drafted by a major league team. As for signing bonuses, I looked it up. I don’t know where you got the idea that there was no money for later round picks because from what I could tell, you could get upwards of fifty thousand dragons. They can’t spend much over that or else incur a penalty, but I think you could get that.”

Brienne’s eyes widened. The guys who had been drafted last year had all gone early—the last had been selected in the fifth round. All the talk had been how much each of them was likely to get, and they made it sound like there wasn’t much money to be had beyond the early rounds. She supposed she shouldn’t have put much stock in what they’d said, because what the hells did they know. And sixteenth round was still in the top half of the draft. Fifty thousand dragons was...hells, more money that she would’ve made working for Uncle Endrew for at least a year and a half. Yes, she’d have to pay taxes on it and if she got an agent, they’d probably want a piece of it. But like Selwyn, she didn’t have expensive vices. She could stretch the bonus as far as it could go, maybe pick up something in the off season, and give it a shot.

_Gods, I’m actually thinking about playing professional baseball._

“Brienne, you’ve proved to everyone that you can do well at every level you’ve played at. You owe it to yourself to try and prove to them that you can do it at the very top.” Selwyn reached out and took her hand in his. “Don’t let this be something you regret.”

Brienne took several deep breaths and then nodded. “Did any of those agents leave their phone numbers?” she asked.

Selwyn laughed. “They insisted on it every time they called! Finish your breakfast, and then we’ll go through your options.”

~*~*~*~*~*

Brienne wished there had been someone, like Coach Waters, to give her an idea of what she should look for in an agent and how to tell good ones from bad ones like he’d done for Loras last year. She knew some of the bigger names, just as everyone did, and Loras had signed with Varys Spyder, the biggest of them all, but of course none of those names were on the list her father gave her. She suspected a lot of them were lower tier agents who would want to play up the fact that she was a woman to make a quick buck and would stop taking her calls once she actually started playing and the novelty factor wore off.

Brienne called all of them, got put on hold for an average of five minutes every time, and heard ten different variations of “we need to strike while the iron’s hot, I’ve already got sponsors lined up for you, have you ever considered a makeover, have you talked to the Royals about what they want from you…” Brienne managed to stay polite and inform them that she was keeping her options open regarding representation and that she would call them back, but the lines crossing out each name on the list got heavier the farther down she got.

The eleventh call was to the only woman on the list, Wylla Manderly. Her assistant put Brienne’s call through immediately.

“It took you damned long enough to call me back,” Wylla said before Brienne could even get through the niceties of telling her who she was. “When can we meet? I’m in King’s Landing so I can catch a flight over to Tarth within two hours if you don’t have anything else going today.”

Brienne was startled. None of the other agents had suggested meeting in person. This woman hadn’t even formally introduced herself and already she wanted a meeting. Was that a sign of a good agent? Sports agents hadn’t been allowed to talk to any of the players until after the season was over, although Brienne had suspected a few had been in contact with Loras.

“Um…” She was supposed to be at work now, but Selwyn had called Uncle Endrew and explained what was happening. Brienne felt terrible about the whole situation, since she felt she was leaving him in the lurch, but despite Endrew growling about how her work put the firm further behind, so just as well she go play baseball, she knew he would miss her. “I guess we can meet today.”

“Excellent. I’ll call you when I arrive at the airport. How far do you live from Evenfall?” Wylla asked, referring to the largest city on Tarth and where the only airport was located.

“About an hour. We’re on the coast and…”

“Okay, text me the address and I’ll find you. Looking forward to our meeting.” And with that, Wylla hung up.

Brienne stared at the phone, feeling much as she had when her father had told her she’d been drafted. Just as she set it down and looked at her list of names, all crossed out but two, Selwyn walked in.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Ten definite noes, and number eleven is on her way here. I’m not sure whether I should call the last one on the list or wait until after I talk to her. If I call this guy and like him, then she’s wasted her trip. But if I don’t like her, she’ll have wasted her trip, anyway.”

“You spoke to her just now. What did you think?”

“I…don’t know. She’s abrupt, so maybe she’ll be pushy.”

Selwyn thought on this. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing for an agent to be,” he said. “You want someone who’s determined. She’ll fight hard to make sure you get what you want in the future. You said she’s coming today?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’ll run out and get some cookies from Walda’s Bakery so you’ll have refreshments for her.” Selwyn’s eyes gleamed.

Brienne managed not to roll her eyes. “Dad, it’s a first meeting for possible representation, not a tea party. We don’t need refreshments.”

“Of course, you do! Honestly, didn’t I teach you better? I’ll run out real quick and bring back some things.”

 _And flirt with Walda while you do,_ Brienne thought fondly. Her father had neglected to mention his third vice when they’d talked earlier, but then they never talked about the parade of women who had been in and out of Selwyn’s life in the years since her mother’s death. Over the years, she’d gone from resentful to resigned and sometimes wistful when he broke up with the nicer ones.

“Do you need me to bring anything back?” he asked.

“No, Dad,” Brienne said, pretending to sound resigned. “Thanks, though.”

Almost three hours to the minute she’d called later, Wylla Manderly rang the Tarths’ doorbell. Brienne was startled when she saw her because she’d expected an older, professional-looking woman. Tall, probably a bit heavyset, wearing an ill-fitting suit since she wouldn’t be an elite agent.

Instead, the woman at the door looked like she was younger than Brienne, hair dyed a shade of green Brienne wasn’t sure she could describe in a long braid. Her large hazel eyes were sharp but she didn’t look at Brienne like she was a piece of meat, so that was a plus right there. Brienne had been right to guess she would be tall, but she was slender. Her black pantsuit was very nice, but Brienne got the impression that Wylla wasn’t exactly comfortable in it. When Wylla extended a hand for Brienne to shake, she noticed that Wylla’s fingernails were painted the same color green as her hair.

“It’s good to meet you,” Wylla said as Brienne escorted her into the living room, where Selwyn had left the plate of carefully arranged cookies with a pitcher of iced tea. “When I didn’t hear of you signing with someone else, I wondered what the hold-up was, figured you were getting into some sort of bidding war.”

“Bidding war?” Brienne murmured as she took a seat in a large, slightly battered tan club chair.

“I’m sure you had others promising you the moon. Endorsements? Media coverage? Cover of _Sports Illustrated_?” Wylla blew a raspberry as she took a seat across from Brienne. “I’m sure they can get you all that, but what will it get you when you reach rookie ball? A bunch of teammates who will resent the hells out of you because you’ll have name recognition, which they’ll desperately want for themselves. A manager who I know for a fact is a washed-up never-was player hating you because he’ll think you have no real talent and he’s stuck with you until you give up or the team moves you to the next level whether you deserve it or not.”

 _This is supposed to be your sales pitch?_ Brienne thought. She held out the plate of cookies. Wylla grabbed a napkin and took two.

“They have said things like that,” Brienne said as she set down the plate and poured Wylla a glass of tea.

“Yeah, I figured. Don’t get me wrong—if that’s what you want, I can get it for you, too. The opportunities are there. But you don’t strike me as someone who’s comfortable with the spotlight.”

Brienne’s eyebrows rose. She took a cookie and nibbled on it as Wylla continued.

“You’ll have coverage anyway because of the whole ‘can a woman really play a man’s sport’ bullshit. It can be managed to some extent, but the higher you climb in the farm system, the worse it will get. And by the time you get to the majors, the glare will make what you’ll deal with now seem like nothing.”

 _Not helping,_ Brienne thought, setting her cookie on her napkin and setting it aside as her stomach churned.

“My job isn’t to help you with that. I’d recommend hiring a publicist once you reach the majors, although maybe you’ll pick up enough savvy to handle it once you arrive.” She gave Brienne a doubtful look but said nothing. “My job is to help you make the most of the opportunities you’ll have, as long as you’re comfortable with them. If people get in touch with me wanting you to endorse them, I’ll ask you if you’re interested. If I think it’s something you’d like, I’ll push for you to do it but if you absolutely refuse, I won’t show you how mad I am at you.”

Brienne smiled at that.

“Likewise, if you call me up and say that you’re interested in endorsing a line of health drinks, I’ll get on the phone with the company as soon as we’re done talking. That’s my job.” Wylla bit savagely into a cookie. Once she’d swallowed, she said, “Obviously, I’m not going to take any money from the pittance you make in the minors. You’ll need every penny you earn to stay afloat. I only take two percent of your signing bonus, and I’ll push hard to get as much as I can for you. Once you’ve made the majors, my percentage goes up to five. For endorsements, I get ten percent. In exchange for that money, I will fight all out to get what you’re worth and not let whatever owners come calling think you’re a pushover because you’re a woman. If the second-best catcher in the league makes five million dragons a season, you’ll make five million and one dragons.”

“You seem confident that I’m going to make it,” Brienne commented, and she realized that not one of the other agents she’d talked to had said anything about what might happen once she’d reached the Show. All they’d talked about were the opportunities she had now.

Wylla smiled. “I’ve seen you play. When SEC went to King’s Landing to play the Golden Cloaks, I was there. You’re amazing. I prayed to the gods that you’d be drafted and made sure I called as soon as the news got out.”

_None of the other agents even talked about seeing me play._

“Now, what questions do you have for me?”

“Uh…” She was supposed to have questions? “I don’t know. Um, how long have you been an agent?” _How old are you, anyway?_

Wylla grinned. “I’ve been in the game for five years. I’m twenty-nine. I used to work at Varys Spyder’s agency, so I learned from the best. I plan to be in his league soon. As for other clients, I have a few. A couple of them are on your soon-to-be team, in fact—Balon Swann and Gendry Waters. You should see the incentives I got on Balon’s contract because Baelish underestimated how good he was going to be. I have a couple of hockey players in the North, a football player from Braavos, and a basketball player in the Reach. Now I hope to have you. I do have experience working with someone just starting out, so you don’t have to worry about me not knowing what to do. And since I don’t have a huge stable, I’m easier to get in touch with compared to the big sharks.”

Brienne nodded. “Do we have contracts for how long you’ll be my agent?” She almost groaned. She’d started warming to this woman and now she’d sabotaged it by suggesting that she might jump ship at some point. “I didn’t mean to say—I just meant that you might decide I’m not worth it and—”

“No, it’s a fair question,” Wylla said, “although you’re much more likely to move on than I would be. I don’t set a time limit on it. We sign a contract, we work together, and when you hit the big time, I pray that you’ll remember who it was that took your phone calls when you were stuck in a broken-down bus alongside the Kingsroad, screaming that you can’t handle Jon Storm’s farts or Ned Hill’s off-key rendition of ‘The Rains of Castamere’ anymore, and sent you a case of Febreeze and a pair of noise-canceling headphones.”

Brienne chuckled, although she knew from past experience with the SEC guys that there was a lot of truth in that scenario.

“Most of all, I _like_ you, Brienne. I think you’ve got a lot more talent than anyone’s given you credit for up to now. I’ve seen it. I believe you can make it, and I want to be there to help you as best I can.”

Brienne smiled and knew that she wasn’t going to get around to calling the last agent on her list. She’d found the right one for her. “Do you think a signing bonus of fifty thousand dragons is the best I can hope for?”

“Oh, hells no,” Wylla said, laughing. “I can get you at least ten thousand more, fifteen at the most since then they’d be getting close to their allowed limit per draft pick in the later rounds.” She extended her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Brienne nodded and shook the hand offered, feeling for the first time like things were going to work out for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Baseball notes and trivia:**
> 
> Sooo....when it comes to Major League Baseball, their draft picks, and how much bonus money they can offer, it is pretty damned complicated. As in, I gave myself a headache trying to figure out exactly how it works.
> 
> If I understand correctly, each team is allotted so much money to spend on their draft picks. This amount is based on their draft order plus what they spent the year before, minus any penalties accrued by exceeding their limit the year before. The idea behind this is to make baseball more competitive by allowing smaller-market/less successful teams the chance to spend the money to convince their picks to sign.
> 
> Here's where it gets even MORE complicated, because MLB then assigns a maximum bonus amount a team can offer each individual draft pick, at least through the first ten rounds. In the 2019 draft, the difference between being the number one overall pick and number two was $600K. However, just because a team CAN offer their draft pick that amount doesn't mean they HAVE to offer the maximum, and anything they save with their higher draft picks can then be used on later ones, as long as they don't go over the overall limit.
> 
> I think that's how it works, anyway. I couldn't be absolutely sure how much Brienne might expect as a 16th-round pick, but my research indicated that 50-70K wouldn't be too far off the mark.
> 
> Jim Abbott, the person quoted at the start of this chapter, pitched in the majors for ten years. He had a good bit of success in his career, including throwing a no-hitter against Cleveland in 1993. And he did it all in spite of being born without a right hand. :)


	4. Chapter Four

“Baseball is the most perfect of games, solid, true, pure and precious as diamonds.   
If only life were so simple.”  
~~W.P. Kinsella

~*~

_Two and a half years later._

**TYWIN LANNISTER, LONGTIME OWNER OF LANNISPORT LIONS, DEAD AT 58**

King’s Landing—Tywin Lannister, owner of baseball’s Lannisport Lions, was found dead in his King’s Landing hotel room this morning. Lannister was in town for MLB’s annual Winter Meetings and had been involved in heavy negotiations for prized free agent…

**FOUL PLAY RULED OUT IN DEATH OF TYWIN LANNISTER**

King’s Landing—The Crownlands’ top coroner completed his autopsy of Tywin Lannister yesterday and submitted his findings to police officials. Although there were suspicions of foul play, it has been determined that Lannister, who was fifty-eight, died of a ruptured bowel…

**FUNERAL SERVICES PLANNED FOR REVERED LIONS OWNER**

Lannisport—The funeral for longtime Lannisport Lions owner Tywin Lannister has been scheduled for Saturday, December 16 at 11 a.m. Lannister, 58, took over the floundering team following the death of his father, Tytos, and within four years turned their fortunes around. The Lions proceeded to win three World Series titles in ten years and…

**WHAT NEXT FOR THE LIONS?**

Lannisport—The fate of one of MLB’s premier teams is uncertain following the death of its owner. Tywin Lannister inherited ownership of the team in its entirety from his father despite the fact that he had four other siblings, three of whom had played for the team. Although none of the siblings commented publicly, close confidantes revealed that at least one of the brothers, Gerion Lannister, was so furious that he demanded a trade and when he didn’t get it, disappeared altogether.

So now that the mighty head of the Lions has died, will Tywin follow his father’s example and leave two of his children out in the cold? Speculation is that he will leave the team to his elder son, King’s Landing Royals ace Jaime Lannister...

~*~*~*~*~*

It had been a month since his father had died, and Jaime still couldn’t believe he was gone.

Tywin Lannister had loomed large in Jaime’s eyes long after Jaime had outstripped him in height and strength. He’d been the tall, imposing man who had thrown pitch after pitch to Jaime when he’d been six. He’d been the one to realize that Jaime had the makings of a fine pitcher and had insisted Jaime be a starter rather than a reliever. He’d been the proud father who attended every one of Jaime’s high school starts no matter what was going on with the Lions.

But Tywin was also the man who had raged when Dragonstone had tweaked Tywin’s nose by drafting Jaime right out of high school, when Tywin had planned for Jaime to go to college and get a little more seasoning. Tywin was the man who was so furious when an eager Jaime signed with the team rather than opt not to accept their contract offer that he’d converted Jaime’s bedroom into a guest room within weeks of the signing, all of Jaime’s souvenirs and mementos thrown away. Had the draft not coincided with Jaime’s eighteenth birthday, he knew he never would’ve been allowed to do it, but Tywin hadn’t been able to prevent him no matter what he tried. Part of Tywin had never truly forgiven Jaime for it, despite everything he said and how proud he was of Jaime’s accomplishments.

Now he was gone, dead from a mysterious bowel blockage, of all things. The maesters hadn’t understood how Tywin hadn’t known something was wrong with him, because he should have been in tremendous pain.

“If he gave it much thought, he probably thought it was nothing more than a minor problem,” Jaime said later, much later, after the initial shock had worn off and all that was left was speculation. “He saw illness as a sign of weakness and did his best to ignore any issues he might have.”

“I figured the son of a whore would die of a brain aneurysm or heart attack,” Tyrion replied. “Type A personalities die of Type A diseases. Although he _was_ a grade-A asshole, so maybe it was appropriate.”

Cersei snapped, “For the Stranger’s sake, could you show at least a _modicum_ of decency? Our father is dead and you’re cracking jokes.”

Things had descended into a shouting match between Cersei and Tyrion then, with Cersei accusing Tyrion of poisoning their father, which caused the bowel rupture that killed him. Tyrion said he wished he’d thought of doing it but denying he’d been anywhere near their father at the time of his death or in the weeks prior, which had certainly been true enough. Only Jaime carting Cersei away to one of Casterly Rock’s spare bedrooms had stopped the argument, although Cersei had made him pay for it once they were alone.

They’d held the funeral a week later. The streets had been lined with Lions fans, most wearing the team’s colors of crimson and gold, some holding up signs about how much they would miss Tywin. Jaime had fought back tears at the sight, but Cersei muttered, “Garish bunch of vultures, trying to make our tragedy about them.”

The funeral itself was private, a sedate affair just in line with the man himself, attended by his family and closest associates—to call them friends would be a stretch, but that had been Tywin’s way. Jaime remembered little of it—the septon’s soothing words that meant nothing, the stony expression on Tyrion’s face even as his eyes held a glimmer of satisfaction, the studied grief on Cersei’s face as she occasionally brought a handkerchief to the corner of her eyes to catch nonexistent tears that might ruin her perfectly made-up face.

After the funeral had come the memorial service back at Casterly Rock. For some reason, Jaime had gotten it into his head that the reading of his father’s will would be held that day, but when he’d mentioned it to his uncle Kevan, who he knew to be the executor of the will, Kevan had explained the legalities that had to be followed first.

“I’d say it’ll be right after the first of the year,” Kevan had said. “For all the wealth Tywin had, the will’s a pretty straightforward document. Everything lined up the way he wanted it.” An odd look had crossed Kevan’s face when he said that, but Jaime thought nothing of it at the time, too lost in his grief to care.

“Can we stay here until the will’s read?” Jaime asked. “I…I don’t feel much like going back to King’s Landing right now.”

Kevan gave him a sympathetic look. “Of course. This was your home, and it’s always good to have someone living here even though the likelihood that someone would be able to get in to rob the place is slim. I have to give you the standard warning that the contents of the home are well documented and that if anything comes up missing—”

“I’m hardly going to rob my father’s estate!” Jaime snapped.

“Of course you won’t,” Kevan said soothingly. “But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t warn you of that.”

And so Jaime had stayed at Casterly Rock, declining Cersei’s entreaties to hold the traditional Lannister family Sevenmas gathering so she wouldn’t be stuck spending the holidays with Robert’s family as well as Tyrion’s suggestions that they get together and drown their sorrows in every dive in Lannisport. He spent most of his time in the room that had been his for eighteen years, unfamiliar since it had been turned into a guest bedroom after Jaime’s “betrayal,” waiting to feel something other than numb.

~*~*~*~*~*

On the last day of the year, Kevan notified Jaime that Tywin’s will had cleared probate and could be read, if that was what his children wanted.

“I don’t actually have to _read_ the thing,” he explained. “I could send everyone copies, but your sister’s already said she wants a reading with everyone present. And perhaps that’s just as well, since there’s a lot that I think will need to be discussed once everyone’s aware of the contents.”

Jaime felt a twinge of anxiety at his words, not sure what that meant. Hadn’t Kevan said previously that the will was straightforward? Why was there suddenly something in it that would need discussion?

“All right,” Jaime said. “I’m fine with the will being read.”

And now, a week after this conversation, on the day Jaime dimly recalled was the start of the Royals’ annual fan-fest weekend—an event Petyr Baelish had not been pleased to hear that Jaime, his top star, would not be attending—he, Cersei, and Tyrion followed Kevan up the winding staircase to the second floor, where Tywin’s office was. As they entered the room, Jaime felt an ache so deep he nearly doubled over. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to come in here since his father’s death, but now he was confronted with all the things that had been so familiar to Jaime in his childhood: the commanding desk with the oversized leather chair for Tywin and the three uncomfortable chairs for everyone else, the photos of Tywin with various Lions teams on the walls, one of his three World Series trophy replicas in a glass case behind the desk. Jaime noticed that there were no family pictures in this room and wondered why he’d never noticed it before.

How often had he come home from baseball practice and found his father sitting behind his desk, poring through scouting reports with Kevan and Mace Tyrell, trying to find a diamond in the midst of all the coal? How often had Jaime stood before Tywin, staring at his shoes, waiting for consequences from some infraction or other? Jaime waited for his father to come in before remembering for the thousandth time that that would never happen again. He blinked several times to clear the dust that had gotten into his eyes before he was able to focus again. It was then that he noticed things that ordinarily weren’t in the room, such as the four chairs, two on either side of the ones directly facing the desk. And sitting in the center of the desk was a brand-new speakerphone. 

Kevan hesitated once they were all in the room, obviously fighting the urge to take his usual spot in the chair directly across the desk from Tywin’s. His quick glance at Jaime sent Jaime’s stomach churning, but then Kevan slowly made his way around the desk to sit in the chair. Cersei made a small disgruntled noise but didn’t say anything as she sat in the middle chair…for about two seconds. She must have realized that sitting in the middle would mean sitting next to Tyrion, so she moved to the chair on the left. Tyrion snorted and, after making a show of sitting in the center chair for a moment, took the chair on the right.

 _Dear gods, when did the “silly man playing a boy’s sport” become the grownup in this bunch?_ Jaime thought caustically as he sat between them. He caught the sympathetic look on Kevan’s face and felt a little better. At least there was one ally in this room.

Kevan checked his watch. “Genna’s downstairs to make sure that the others know where to go. They should be here in a couple of minutes, and—”

“Others?” Cersei asked, her voice shrill. “What others?”

“Your father left a number of small bequests to people—former Lions managers, a couple of the other owners, even a couple of former players if he’d made a lasting connection with them. Genna, of course, and…me. Most people were content with me sending them a copy of the will in lieu of being here, and I will send those out after we’re finished here today. Only a couple of others asked to be here.” 

“Is it legal for you to be his lawyer and the executor of his will when you’re mentioned in it?” Cersei asked suspiciously.

“Cersei,” Jaime murmured, “it’s not like he’s left the family jewels to everyone he ever met. I’m sure that he’s left things like signed memorabilia to the others. Although he’s probably given Grandmother Jeyne’s pearls to Genna—and don’t worry! As she’s only got boys, you know you’ll get them when she dies.”

Cersei gave him a dark look as there was a knock at the door. Within ten minutes, Genna came into the room with three people who Jaime recognized as being part of the Lions organization over the years, although he couldn’t remember their names. Kevan picked up the receiver of the speakerphone and dialed a number. He pushed a button to place whoever was on the other end on speaker, then said, “I think that’s everyone. The person on the phone is a legal advisor from Major League Baseball, as Tywin’s will includes the ownership of the Lannisport Lions. Jon, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Kevan,” a voice said. Jaime recognized it as Jon Arryn.

“All right then. I know this is a difficult time for everyone, especially given how sudden Tywin’s death was.”

“And how suspicious,” Cersei muttered, glaring across Jaime at Tyrion. Tyrion ignored her.

“The Crownlands Coroner’s office has already completed the autopsy,” Kevan said patiently, as this was not the first time he’d had to remind Cersei of this. “Although Tywin’s death was unusual, there are no signs of foul play.”

“I’m sure—”

“Cersei,” Jaime said in a voice that sounded eerily like his father’s. “Could we do this another time? Right now, I think we’d all like to get this part of it over with.”

Cersei looked like she wanted to argue with Jaime, but clearly saw the sense in not continuing. She gave a brief nod of her head to Kevan.

Kevan began with all the legalese that began every last will and testament. Tywin, being methodical, had started with the small bequests, which as Jaime predicted, included memorabilia and personal items to people he’d liked and respected—or at the very least, respected.

“To my sister, Genna Lannister Frey, I leave the entire contents of our mother’s jewelry vault, with the understanding that upon her death, the family heirlooms—our mother’s pearl necklace, the Lannister lion ruby pendant, and the ruby-and-diamond tiara—will be passed on to my daughter, Cersei. I also leave her five-percent ownership in the Lannister Lions. Finally, I leave her my love, which I know she has sometimes believed she didn’t have. Genna, I fought for you as best I could all those years ago, and my failure has haunted me since.”

Genna sniffled slightly and brought a white handkerchief to her eye to catch any tears that might ruin her makeup.

“To my brother, Kevan Lannister, I leave our father’s entire collection of sports memorabilia, including his World Series rings and the Commissioner’s Trophies. I also leave him five-percent ownership in the Lannister Lions.”

Out of the corner of both eyes, Jaime noticed Cersei and Tyrion looking less than thrilled about this. Jaime wasn’t sure why. Tywin always talked about passing on the Lions ownership intact, but obviously he’d had a change of heart. Kevan and Genna—Tywin’s two surviving siblings—only had ten percent. Tywin had loved even numbers, which meant that the three of them would get thirty percent of the team.

“To each of my grandchildren—Joffrey Baratheon, Myrcella Baratheon, and Tommen Baratheon—I leave sums in the amount of fifty million dragons each, to be placed in trust funds administered by my brother, Kevan Lannister. The children will receive the bulk of the trusts on their twenty-fifth namedays.

“To my younger son, Tyrion Lannister, I leave the remainder of the trust fund that was allocated to him by his mother but was not to be distributed to him until his thirtieth nameday or my death. I also leave him the sum of one hundred and fifty million dragons, the family’s holdings in the Reach, and the summer cottage on Tarth. Try not to drink and whore your way through it all, Tyrion.”

“Just for that, I’ll do my damnedest to be bankrupt in a year,” Tyrion muttered. “And where’s my share of the team?”

Kevan cleared his throat. “To my daughter, Cersei Lannister Baratheon, I leave the sum of fifty million dragons, the family’s holdings in Dorne, and the other summer cottage in Volantis. Cersei, you always said you loved the hot spots, so that’s what you have.”

Cersei looked puzzled by that. “When did I ever say—I was talking about trendy places, not literal hot spots!” But she obviously had the same question as Tyrion, and a dawning suspicion of what was coming next. 

“To my elder son, Jaime Lannister, I leave the remainder of my estate, including possession of the family home, Casterly Rock, and all other funds not already specified to go to other beneficiaries in this will.” Kevan looked at Jaime. “This includes ninety percent ownership of the Lannister Lions. Jaime, there comes a time when a man must live up to the expectations and responsibilities owed to his family. This team is my legacy, and I leave it to you knowing you will do your best to carry on the proud tradition of winning.”

There was total silence in the room for all of five seconds, which Jaime used to try and sort out how he felt. Five years might not have been enough time, though he wasn’t getting that because…

“That is _outrageous!_ He…he can’t _do that!”_ Cersei shouted. Jaime winced and wondered if his left eardrum would ever recover. He inclined his head to his right to see how Tyrion was taking the news. He wasn’t surprised at Tyrion’s complete lack of reaction. Jaime knew his brother well. Tyrion was furious, but he wasn’t going to say anything in front of everyone else.

“The team was your father’s to do with as he wished, Cersei, and this was what he wanted,” Kevan said mildly. Jaime was impressed by how unruffled his uncle seemed. “I was surprised that he was willing to break off even the small parts of the team that he did to give to me and Genna, but when I asked him about it, he said that he felt…” Kevan looked apologetically at Jaime. “He felt that Jaime would need an experienced, guiding hand to help him.” He smiled. “It’s far different being on the executive side of the business than it is the athletic one, son.”

Jaime sat back in his chair, still unable to process what had just happened.

“No, I mean that Father literally _can’t do that!”_ Cersei repeated. “Jaime can’t own the team. He’s a player for a _different_ team! There’s rules and regulations and…and I asked Robert about this and read up on it. Is that will legitimate? Because there’s no way Father would have shut me out and left it all to Jaime, who can’t own the team. He must have been getting senile.”

“Nice of you to remember that he shut me out, too,” Tyrion said. “And she’s right. Hysterical, but right. Jaime can’t even own part of the team while he’s still playing.” He turned to Jaime. “Unless you plan on retiring now that you’ve got the Lions?”

“Not hardly,” Jaime said. He might not be sure about anything else right now, but he knew he was nowhere near done playing baseball, not when he was at the top of his game.

“Tywin had no expectation that he was going to die this soon. I believe he thought that Jaime would be retired from playing baseball by the time he died but would be coaching or managing somewhere.” Kevan flipped through the papers. “As such, he didn’t leave any provisions about what should happen if he died before Jaime retired. And this is why I’ve got Jon on the phone, to give us our options.”

“What options? Either he retires and takes over the team, or…” She looked at Jaime speculatively. “…or he sells to someone else in the family.”

“That’s about the right of it,” the tinny voice of MLB’s lawyer came over the speaker. “Ever since Rivers Hornwood owned a piece of the Sailors before being traded to the Giants, contracts and CBAs have included language preventing this from happening. But how often does an owner’s son end up playing professionally? Some people tend to forget that the reason Tytos didn’t leave his team to the younger three sons was because they were still playing professionally.”

“Of course,” Genna said dryly, “there was the understanding that Tywin would do the right thing by the boys and give them their share of the team after they retired. When Gerion decided to retire after our father’s death and Tywin didn’t live up to his end of the bargain…”

“Gerion misunderstood what Tywin meant,” Kevan replied. “He was always a hot head.”

Genna didn’t respond but her look spoke volumes.

“Depending on how much Jaime trusts his siblings, an arrangement could be reached that is similar to what the Baratheons did with Renly’s share of the Thunder,” Jon continued. “Renly’s parents died when he was a child, so his share of the team was already being held in trust for him. When it was clear he was going to play professionally, Robert and Stannis agreed to continue the trust until after he retired.”

No one spoke.

“The difference there is that Stannis and Robert received equal shares in the team, and they owned it together until Robert had to transfer his share to become the commissioner,” Tyrion said, although he looked more hopeful than he had since Kevan had started reading the will. “If the team had been split evenly between the three of us, I would agree to a similar arrangement, but not like this. Not unless Jaime agrees to sell forty-five percent of the team to each of us now with the understanding that we’ll sell him back a combined thirty percent when he retires.”

“Or he could sell the team to me outright and not have to worry about anything,” Cersei shot back. “There you go, problem solved. Jaime doesn’t have to worry about being in trouble with the league and the team stays in the family.”

Tyrion scoffed. “What the hells do you want with the Lions, Cersei? It’s not like we ever see your beautiful face at baseball games unless Robert drags you there by the hair—or it’s the World Series and you want to brag to your followers about how you have the best seats in the house.”

“I don’t have to justify myself to you,” Cersei said loftily. “All that matters is that unlike you, I have the money to be able to buy the team from Jaime.” She gave him a smug smile.

Jaime could tell that Tyrion was hanging on to his temper by the thinnest of hairs. Jaime wished he could comfort him—crack a joke to make him smile, give him a hug—but he knew Tyrion wouldn’t appreciate it now.

The best thing he could do was put everyone out of their misery and end this scene for now. “How long do I have to decide?” Jaime asked. “If I decide to sell the team and the sale takes a while to be approved by the owners and finalized, will I be allowed to play until things are settled?”

“I’ve spoken with the commissioner about this—”

“Stranger fuck me, Jon, we know how Robert’s connected to this, just call him by his name!” Cersei snapped.

“—as I was saying,” Jon said as if Cersei hadn’t yelled, _“Robert_ has agreed that as long as a deal seems imminent, you’ll be allowed to play. If you decide to sell the team to a family member, that will expedite the approval process. I would say that you’ve got until the start of spring training to have things squared away.”

Just over a month. Wonderful.

“Thank you,” Jaime said. He stood up. “I need…I need…” _For my father to be alive so I can kill him all over again for doing this to me,_ he thought. “…air. And some privacy,” he added when he saw Cersei start to rise out of her chair. “I’m going for a drive. Thank you, Jon.”

Jaime vaguely heard Jon speak, and Cersei’s suddenly shrill voice saying something else, and the mocking tone of Tyrion adding fuel to the fire. He didn’t care. He had to get away.

Jaime got as far as the parking garage to take his prized Direwolf out when it occurred to him that he owned every car in there. The limousine his father rode in when he wanted to seem imposing. The armored car. The vintage convertibles his father was fond of collecting but never driving.

It was all his. Casterly Rock was his. The gold mines were his. Who knew what else there was that hadn’t been divvied up by the bequests in Tywin’s will, but it was his. The Lions were his.

Jaime wanted none of it. He would give it all away to have his father back—proud papa, miserly owner, exasperated father, and all. And it wasn’t just because of the decision he was facing regarding the Lions, which surely Tywin had known Jaime would not want despite what he’d said about knowing Jaime would live up to the Lannister legacy (whatever the fuck that was). But because he _missed_ him.

Jaime rooted through the keys on the garage wall and found the set he was searching for. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised the car was still there, albeit hidden in a far corner where it could go unnoticed for years so it didn’t besmirch the glory of the rest of the cars in the garage. He smiled as he opened the car door of the dented black sedan and slid into the driver’s seat.

Tywin’ third passion, after baseball and business, was cars. Tywin had been the one to take Jaime out on the long stretches of road between Casterly Rock and Lannisport when he’d been learning to drive and had taught him to appreciate fine vehicles. Tywin had purchased this on Jaime’s fifteenth nameday, telling him that he wouldn’t purchase him anything finer until Jaime got all of the “teenage boy hijinks” out of the way and could drive responsibly. The deal he’d struck was that Jaime would go a year without any traffic violations or accidents.

It took Jaime two years, but Tywin made good on his promise. Of course, the following year when Jaime had signed with Dragonstone, the car had gone along with the rest of Jaime’s things, but…

“You sentimental son of a bitch,” Jaime said softly, as tears began rolling down his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **MLB notes and trivia:**
> 
> Although there have been a number of player-managers in MLB’s long history, as far as I’ve been able to see, there’s only been one instance where a player actually owned a piece of an MLB team. Rogers Hornsby was a player-manager for the St. Louis Cardinals who, as part of his managerial contract, had received several shares in the team. When he was traded to the New York Giants in 1927, the deal was held up until he agreed to sell his shares back to the primary owner. The owner tried to lowball him, which led to the rest of the National League owners being forced to chip in to pay Hornsby what the shares were worth, and the deal went through.
> 
> After that, every MLB contract has stipulated that an active player or manager cannot own any part of a team. This also applies to the Commissioner. When Bud Selig took over the role in 1992, he transferred his ownership of the Milwaukee Brewers to his daughter.
> 
> The quote for this chapter comes from the novel _Shoeless Joe,_ which was the basis for the movie _Field of Dreams._


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Just a quick note to thank everybody for hanging in there on this story--I hope you continue to enjoy it!! Thanks as ever to waxedpaperdoor for reading through the chapter!! :)
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://writergirl2011.tumblr.com)

“When you do what you're supposed to do and don't complain much,  
I think the fans, media, players and front office appreciate and respect that.”  
~~Torii Hunter

~*~

**NimbleDick:** Just saw where Velaryon’s been given his release. Anyone know who’s getting added to the 40-man to replace him?  
 **Broke Illifer:** Heard it might be Morgath.  
 **SerCreighton:** That fucker? He can’t hit a breaking ball. Why would they add him?  
 **Broke Illifer:** Defense, man. And he’s a 3B, like Velaryon, so it makes sense.  
 **NimbleDick:** You still gotta be able to hit. And Royals already got three other 3B on 40-man. Figured that was why they dropped Velaryon.  
 **Mad Mouse:** Fucking hells, my defense is better than his. And I can HIT. It should be me.  
 **SerCreighton:** Guys, you know they’ll end up taking adding someone from AAA, so that rules out Morgath.  
 **NimbleDick:** If they take anyone from us, it’ll be Tarth.  
 **Mad Mouse:** LMFAO  
 **Broke Illifer:** GTFO with that, Crabb. NO WAY they go with her. She’s just a not-so-pretty face they brought up to look good.  
 **NimbleDick:** Which is why she beat you out for starting catcher this year. And damn near got the team’s triple crown  
 **Broke Illifer:** I could’ve done better if I’d gotten the playing time  
 **NimbleDick:** Keep telling yourself that  
 **Mad Mouse:** Good one, man. Tarth. Right.  
 **NimbleDick:** Why not?  
 **Broke Illifer:** Give you two reasons why not—1) she’s a woman, and 2) she hasn’t paid her dues.  
 **SerCreighton:** Like baseball’s ever given a fuck about someone paying their dues before they make the Show.  
 **Mad Mouse:** You think any of the guys in the Show are gonna want her around? She’ll be a distraction, just like she was for us.  
 **NimbleDick:** Tarth being on this team was not the reason you got 95 Ks and only hit .232 with runners in scoring position, dumbass  
 **Mad Mouse:** Fuck you  
 **SerCreighton:** Guys, they’ll add someone from AAA. You’re fighting for no reason.  
 **NimbleDick:** I stand by my prediction that it’s going to be her.  
 **Broke Illifer:** Fifty dragons says you’re wrong  
 **Mad Mouse:** Do you ever have fifty dragons?  
 **Broke Illifer:** Fuck you  
 **SerCreighton:** Not like the man don’t have a point  
 **NimbleDick:** LOL  
 **Broke Illifer:** Fuck all of you!!  
 **NimbleDick:** you serious about the bet? I’ll put money on it. Tarth’s getting the call.  
 **Mad Mouse:** I’m in, money on ME over MORGATH and TARTH  
 **SerCreighton:** I’m in but my money’s on AAA guy whoever they choose  
 **Broke Illifer:** I’m in, money on Morgath.  
 **SerCreighton:** you better be able to pay up, Illifer. I’m not gonna let it slide like Crabb will  
 **Broke Illifer** …

~*~*~*~*~*

On a surprisingly cold day just before Sevenmas, Brienne was at the off-season job she’d managed to procure at Evenfall’s leading florist's shop when her phone rang. She paused in the middle of working on yet another arrangement of winter roses, possibly her least favorite flower ever, and glanced over at her boss. It was too much to hope that he hadn’t heard it and of course he had. Humfrey Wagstaff might be nearly sixty, but he had the hearing of a bat.

“No personal calls on company time,” he said with a glare.

Brienne sighed and glanced at the caller ID. The number was unfamiliar to her, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t important. Once upon a time, she never answered a number she didn’t know because the likelihood was that the caller was a telemarketer, but after the first time she didn’t answer her phone and it turned out to be her manager, she made sure to answer. Even when it pissed off her boss.

“It could be important,” she replied.

“Unless it’s that dumbass agent of yours, telling you that the Royals have finally come to their senses and dropped you, you’re not answering it.”

Brienne shot him a glare of her own. What was he going to do, fire her? Who would work for him as cheaply as she did? She accepted the call.

“Hello,” she said, walking away from the overpowering scent of the roses, away from Humfrey, and outside where it might be cold as the lowest of the seven hells but at least she could breathe.

“Brienne Tarth?” The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but for the life of her she couldn’t place it.

“Yes?”

“This is Gerold Hightower, the general manager with the Royals. How are you today?”

Brienne felt sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I’m good, sir,” she replied. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Very good. Listen, Brienne, the reason I’m calling is to give you a head’s up before it goes to the press. We’re adding you to our 40-man roster.” He paused. “Er…40- _person_ roster, I should say.”

Brienne couldn’t keep from gasping at the announcement. “Really?” She asked, then cringed because of how girly and uncertain she sounded.

“Yes.” Despite the miles, Brienne could hear Mr. Hightower smiling. “You blew all our other prospects away this year, should’ve been named MVP in Dorne League play, and frankly, you’ve earned it. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Brienne said, sounding much more grounded now.

“With your addition to the forty-man, I mean—” 

“Mr. Hightower, you can call it the 40-man roster. I won’t be offended.”

“I would, Brienne, but Mr. Baelish insists we acknowledge that there are both men and women on our roster. Well, woman, anyway.”

Brienne wondered if she should argue the point, but decided to let it go.

“As I was saying, with your addition to our roster, obviously there’s going to be a lot of press coverage, which is the reason I was calling you before we made the announcement. You’re also being invited to this year’s Royals Parade. We’ve scheduled you for an autograph session with the fans and a Q-and-A session with the other top prospects.” He paused. “I realize this is somewhat short notice, but I’m sure you’ll be able to rearrange your schedule to make it to the event.” 

Brienne nearly gasped again. The Royals Parade was the team’s annual winter gathering for the fans, held over a three-day weekend. The team’s top players always attended along with a select group of prospects whose chances of making the Show were strongest. Last year, one of the guys she’d started out in rookie ball with had attended, although he’d been injured most of this last season and hadn’t panned out yet.

This year, it was her turn. “Of course,” she said, although directly on the heels of her acceptance was the thought of how she was going to pay for the trip to King’s Landing as well as a hotel room. And how she was going to explain to her boss that she was going to need an entire weekend off work to go. 

“Finally, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, because you’ve been added to the 40-person roster, you will also be invited to our major league spring training camp in February.”

Brienne refrained from pointing out that because she was a catcher, she would’ve been going to spring training anyway, because she knew what the difference was. A catcher not on the 40-man roster usually caught several of the big-league pitchers for a few days before being shunted off to the minor league version of camp.

This would be different. Sure, there was still no pay and it wasn’t likely that she’d have access to the major league clubhouse because she was a woman, which meant she wouldn’t have access to the food spread, which was always excellent, from what she’d heard. But she’d be with the _major league training camp._

“I’ll be there,” she said. “I’ll be the first one there.”

Mr. Hightower provided her with a few more information about dates and expectations, but nothing was new there since both the major and minor league spring training camps started at the same time for pitchers and catchers. Brienne confirmed that she had everything down and the call ended with one last congratulations and words of encouragement.

Brienne set her phone down and took a minute to process what had just happened. She’d been named to the forty-man roster (forty-person roster, whatever). It was no guarantee that she would make the Show, of course. First off, she knew Danwell Frey’s option had been picked up, so he would be the starter. Second, she knew that Alliser Thorne, the backup catcher, had agreed to return for another year. Third, it was very rare for a team to carry three catchers on their 25-man ( _person_ ) roster. 

In all likelihood, she would spend a decent amount of time in the major league camp, with scouts and coaches and the great Barristan Selmy assessing her, and then she’d be sent to the Royals’ Triple-A team for the season. If she did well, she might get called up if either Frey or Thorne were injured. She’d have an excellent shot to be one of the September call-ups.

_I’m close. I’m so close now I can see it. I can…_

Brienne burst into tears, because in spite of everything, the wildest dream she’d never let herself dream looked like it was going to come true. All the misery and frustration she’d endured for the past three years was paying off—the room-shares that never quite panned out; the long hours spent on those crowded buses; the miserable meals eaten from whatever could be scrounged from a convenience store they stopped at along the way to their next destination; the sleepless nights when she worried about how she was going to stretch the pittance she was paid across an entire month so she wouldn’t have to call Selwyn _again_ for money; the initial doubt of managers who thought she was a lightweight that quickly changed to grudging admiration of her talent; the snide comments of most of her teammates trying to knock her down because of her gender.

Not that it had all been misery and frustration, though. Brienne clung to the positives as best she could during those three years—the adoration of the girls who came to baseball games yelling out her name and asking for autographs; the coaches who weren’t as entrenched in their sexist beliefs as the managers and provided her with the guidance she needed to improve her game; the pride on her father’s face whenever he was able to sneak away from work to see her play; the few friends she’d been able to make along her journey, including probably the person she was closest to on her current team, Richard Crabb. (He said he knew they were going to be friends when she didn’t laugh at his nickname of “Nimble Dick.” Brienne didn’t tell him that she’d had a good laugh about it when she was alone and wondered what the hells his parents were thinking to give him the name Richard, but she supposed if he could have changed his name if he’d wanted.). And above all, the joy she felt every time she stepped onto the field. All the misery and frustration faded away when the game began.

The back door to the shop banged open, and Brienne jumped and nearly dropped her phone. She looked up to see Humfrey glaring at her.

“Hey! Get back in here and finish that damned arrangement! The customer’s back for it and you’re standing here…” He cocked his head to one side. “…crying?” His face brightened. “Team finally come to its senses and not renew your contract?”

Brienne wished she could tell Humfrey Wagstaff that he could take his job and shove it someplace his proctologist would never find, but that had never been her. For one thing, this was her father’s favorite florist shop and as he was a frequent customer, she didn’t want to risk him being cut off from his usual source. For another, she was at least a year away from the major league team, possibly longer. She couldn’t burn this bridge when she’d probably need to work here again in the fall.

But she couldn’t resist one little dig. “Actually, they’re adding me to the forty-person roster,” she replied. “Would you mind if I called my father to let him know?”

 _And my agent,_ she thought, because another of the joys in her last three years had been the vivacious, dogged Wylla Manderly, who had taken the phone calls she’d foreseen coming and never once pawned Brienne off on an assistant or taken three days to get back to her if she was busy when Brienne called.

Humfrey’s mouth puckered as if he’d been eating lemons and his eyes blazed with outrage. It was so far from the “kindly warm-hearted florist” persona he’d perfected for his customers that Brienne considered snapping a picture to send out once she finally was able to leave, but that wasn’t her style, either. Instead, she waited patiently for him to weight the pros and cons of pissing off his favorite customer’s daughter.

“You can talk to him later. Unless you get back inside and get back to work, you’re fired,” Humfrey said before going back in, not waiting to see if she’d follow him because he knew she would.

With surprising deftness, Humfrey swiped Brienne’s phone out of her hands when she came back in and tossed it in his safe, to which she didn’t have a key. “You’ll get it back at the end of the day,” he told her flatly when she pointed out to him that he didn’t have the right to steal her phone. “You want to be able to pay for the damned thing, you’ll work to earn the money.”

But it wasn’t meant to be. Although Brienne finished the arrangement and started on the next order that had come in, the shop’s phone began ringing off the hook with reporters wanting to talk to Brienne. Humfrey shouted, “She doesn’t work here anymore!” and hung up the phone every time someone asked to speak to Brienne, then glared at her to the point where Brienne wondered which call would be the one that got her fired.

Finally, Brienne said, “Mr. Wagstaff, their next move is going to be to come here in person. The customers won’t be able to get in.”

“No one’s allowed to come in here unless they’re a paying customer,” he said smugly.

“And if the paying customers can’t get in because of all the reporters blocking the entrance?”

“That’s what cops are for.” Humfrey frowned. “Though it might not be a good idea to have cops hanging around here. Might make the customers nervous.”

“Especially the married men who buy Sevenmas arrangements for their secret girlfriends,” Brienne mumbled under her breath. “If you’d just let me talk to some of them—I could do it over speakerphone while I continue to work in the back. A few might show up for pictures, but most of them are going to wait until they see me at the Royals Parade in a few weeks.” Brienne bit down on her lip and cursed her inability to keep her mouth shut.

“The _what?!”_ Humfrey roared.

“Uh, the…Royals Parade? Annual fan gathering in King’s Landing?”

“I know what it is. What makes you think you’re going?”

“Mr. Hightower—the Royals’ GM, who I was talking to a bit ago—said that Mr. Baelish, the owner, made a point of wanting me there for an autograph session and some other stuff.”

“Is this Baelish paying you for this?” The redder Humfrey’s face got, the more nervous Brienne got that he might have a stroke.

“Not for this, no, but it’s a great opportunity to connect with the fans.”

Humfrey smacked his fist on the counter. “ _I_ pay for you to work, and I expect you to show up when scheduled. _I’m_ the one who provides you with an income that tides you over while you’re off gallivanting all over creation, pretending you can play baseball as well as a man. And what do I get for my efforts? First, you show up two months later than you should have—”

“I was selected to play in the Dorne League, I couldn’t turn that down—”

“—and _now_ you want time off to go to some silly fan event when the only reason they want you there is for publicity! If you honestly think I’m going to give you the time off, you can think again!”

Humfrey was poking at every little fear Brienne had—about why she’d been drafted, why she’d been promoted, why she’d just been placed on the 40-person roster, and definitely about why she’d been invited to the Royals Parade. But she knew better. She _knew_ better. She’d earned everything she’d gotten, and she wasn’t about to let some idiot florist who didn’t know his ass from first base tell her otherwise.

“Fine,” she said. “You don’t need to worry about giving me the time off.” Just as his glower started to lift, she untied the apron she’d worn to protect her clothes and tossed it on the ground. “Because I quit. Effective immediately. Now give me back my phone or else I call the cops and have you arrested for theft.”

Humfrey yelled, and threatened, and when neither of those convinced Brienne to stay on at the shop, he mocked, but Brienne held firm. She knew she’d regret it later—and probably a lot sooner than later now that she was committed to going to the Royals Parade—but for now, she felt a lot lighter than she had when she’d walked into work that morning.

~*~*~*~*~*

**NimbleDick:** PAY UP LOSERS!!! “Gerold Hightower announced today that AA catcher Brienne Tarth, 24, has been added to the Royals’ 40-man roster, replacing Monterys Velaryon, and has been invited to the team’s spring training camp.”  
 **Mad Mouse:** Are you kidding me?  
 **Broke Illifer:** WTF  
 **NimbleDick:** “Hightower said, ‘Brienne Tarth had an excellent season for our AA team and made a strong showing in the Dorne League’s season. After careful consideration of some of our AAA prospects, we felt she was the best choice.’”  
 **SerCreighton:** FML what bullshit  
 **Mad Mouse:** godsdammit, if she makes the Show before I do I’m gonna retire  
 **Broke Illifer:** good. Improves the odds the rest of us will make the show  
 **Mad Mouse:** That’s the only way you’ll ever get there  
 **Broke Illifer:** Fuck you  
 **NimbleDick:** I’m happy for her. She’s earned it  
 **Broke Illifer:** bullshit. It’s all publicity man  
 **NimbleDick:** look at it this way, Illifer. If she moves on, you’ll get your starting job back  
 **SerCreighton:** better still—if she moves on, we don’t have to look at her ugly ass face anymore  
 **Mad Mouse:** if she moves on her face will be everywhere, you stupid fucker. I agree with Illifer—this is publicity  
 **NimbleDick:** meantime—pay up, losers! That means you too, Illifer!  
 **Broke Illifer:** …

~*~*~*~*~*

The Royals Parade was held every year at the White Sword Tower in King’s Landing. Tickets always sold out within hours of going on sale, and people clambered for the opportunity to meet their favorite ballplayers of past, present, and future. There were many different activities taking place over the three-day weekend, and as Brienne walked into the main lobby on day one, she had to remind herself every five seconds not to gawk at her surroundings. She couldn’t help it, though. While it wasn’t the most luxurious hotel in the city, it was about ten steps above every other place Brienne had stayed at, including the hotel just outside of Flea Bottom where she would be staying during her time here.

Brienne looked down at her dark blue pantsuit and wondered again if she should’ve gone with something else—something in a simple black, perhaps. But no. She’d consulted with Wylla, her father, _and_ her father’s latest girlfriend. All three of them had said that blue was her best color as it brought out her eyes. Wylla had talked with a friend of hers who knew an up-and-coming fashion designer, explained the situation, and had this outfit created for her. It fit perfectly, which was something she couldn’t say for three quarters of her wardrobe. When she’d put it on at home she’d felt confident. Stylish. Like she belonged at an event like this.

_Who am I kidding? I don’t belong here any more than I belong on a…_

“Don’t,” she murmured to herself, a bare wisp of a sound. She belonged on a baseball field. And because of that, she belonged here today, at the team’s winter event.

However, she wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to do. She’d been so nervous that she’d left Evenfall without the instructions she’d printed out about where exactly she needed to go. She saw a lot of people in line but wasn’t sure if that meant the event was being held at wherever the line led or what exactly was going on. She thought she’d read something about a side entrance and someone there to meet her, but she couldn’t be sure. And since she’d also forgotten the special ID that had been sent her in the mail, she had no proof of who she was.

Brienne’s eyes darted from side to side, wondering if she should call Mr. Hightower but not wanting to sound like a complete idiot, especially not now.

“Brienne?”

Brienne’s head whipped around as a fairly tall, portly man approached.

“Brienne Tarth! I’d heard you were going to be here, but it was such a last-minute thing that I wasn’t sure!” The man smiled at her, revealing yellowing teeth. “I don’t suppose you remember me, do you?”

Brienne hesitated for a second. She knew who he was, of course—and the question he’d asked her would’ve been more appropriate for her to ask him. In the very early days of spring training last year, she’d spent time catching some of the relievers, including him. But she suspected they’d had a more memorable meeting before, and for the life of her, she couldn’t remember when.

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling her face get warm. “I know you’re Cleos Frey.” 

“Oh, it’s okay. I always tell people that if I wasn’t me, I wouldn’t remember me either,” he said with a laugh. “Storm’s End alumni game your…senior year, I think? Maybe your junior year. I was there and you helped me with—”

“Your bunting!” Brienne exclaimed, because she remembered now. He was hopeless with a bat. “Yes! How’s that been going?”

“Well,” Cleos said, rubbing the back of his head, “not good, to be honest. But I haven’t given up. I’ll get it right one of these days.”

“I’m sure you will,” Brienne said with more sincerity than honesty.

“What are you doing down here?” he asked. “Everything’s going on upstairs.”

Brienne hoped she wasn’t blushing too much. “I…well, I left my itinerary at home and…” She waited for Cleos to laugh her stupidity.

But instead, he nodded. “First time I was at one of these things, I went to the wrong hotel clear across town. Baelish threatened to fine me a thousand dragons for being late. That was a lot of money for me back then.” Cleos smiled. “But my cousin told him he’d cover the fine since obviously I’d shown more sense than usual in trying to skip out of the event.”

Brienne’s heart sank. She had even less money now than Cleos would’ve had then, and no cousin around to pay any fine she might incur.

“C’mon. They’re just getting started, and I’ll bet they’re saving you for the early afternoon session, right before the big hitters. We can check out a few things, I can introduce you to some of the guys, if you’d like.”

Brienne nodded, hoping she didn’t look too eager. Cleos walked toward the elevators, past the line of fans waiting to get into the event. Brienne thought she heard a few whispers of “there she is” and “that’s Brienne Tarth” as they made their way through the crowd.

 _I suppose I didn’t really need a badge, all things considered,_ she thought.

Cleos flashed his badge at the event organizers, who waved them through, and then they were in an elevator by themselves.

“You’ll definitely want to meet Danwell and Alliser,” Cleos said. “And the pitchers! I’m sure they’ll be excited to meet you, since you might be catching them in the future. I think Blackwater said he was looking forward to meet you.”

“Uh-huh.” As the elevator rose, Brienne’s stomach felt leaden.

“It’s too bad my cousin isn’t here. He’d probably be interested in meeting you, too.” Cleos hesitated. “But we had a death in the family last month and he’s dealing with some stuff from that, so he isn’t here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Brienne said automatically as the doors opened to a cacophony of noise. People congregated everywhere in groups or lines, talking excitedly about meeting this player or that, organizers trying to get people’s attention to let them know what events would be where, children running around everywhere with parents trying to corral them, and here and there, a familiar face.

“Oops.” Cleos the button to close the elevator doors. “Players are on the ninth floor until it’s time for their sessions.”

Brienne breathed a small sigh of relief as the doors closed and the elevator moved upward.

“Don’t be nervous,” Cleos said. “It’s not as overwhelming as it seems. You won’t have to face the entire crowd at once or anything. Someone will take you to your events and get you out of there when they’re over.”

“That’s good to hear.” The doors opened again to what looked like a restaurant complete with a huge bar along the back wall. And despite there being far fewer people in the room, Brienne found she was more nervous because almost every current player on the Royals’ roster was there along with a number of former players.

 _There_ was Balon Swann, the Royals’ third baseman…and Dickon Tarly, who’d been traded to the team during the offseason…and one of the Leftright twins, who always provided pop off the bench (and depending on which one it was, from either the left or right side). And there…

“Ah! There he is. Come on. I’ll take you to meet Danwell.” Cleos motioned for Brienne to follow him. Brienne wanted nothing more than to duck back into the elevator, but she forced her feet to move forward, knowing that many pairs of eyes turned her way to get their first look.

 _They’re just a bunch of players, like you’re a player. Nothing more or less. You belong here, so keep your head up._ Brienne kept her eyes firmly focused on Cleos as he led her to the bar, where two men stood with drinks in hand despite the fact that it wasn’t even eleven o’clock.

“Gentlemen!” Cleos beamed. “Good to see you!”

Danwell was about half a foot shorter than Brienne, with light brown hair and gray eyes that twinkled when he smiled, which he did now as he said, “Hey, Cleos.” Alliser, however, didn’t look nearly as friendly and didn’t bother with a greeting. 

“Danwell, Alliser, this is Brienne Tarth. She’s—”

“I think the whole world knows who she is,” Alliser said, giving her the sour look she’d become so used to over the years.

Danwell looked her up and down and said, “Good gods, you’re as massive as the fucking Wall in the North. How’d you end up catching?”

It was a fair question, one that had been asked by just about every coach and manager she’d had after leaving Little League. “When I was younger, everyone thought it would be easier for me to catch since it wouldn’t require me to throw as far as I would if I played outfield.” She didn’t add the second part—that everyone had expected her to post poor offensive numbers, which would be more acceptable in a catcher. “They tried me at other positions as I got taller and stronger. I can play first base fairly well, but catching’s what I’m best at.”

“We’ll see,” Alliser muttered.

Brienne bit back a response, because Alliser _had_ seen her before in previous spring trainings and had had nothing nice to say to her.

“Look forward to seeing you in spring training,” Danwell said before turning back to Alliser. “I don’t know what’s going on with Jaime. He hasn’t texted me but from the sounds of it, it’s going to be a clusterfuck.”

Brienne felt a sting of embarrassment but apparently, being ignored was nothing new for Cleos as he said, “Well, let’s move on and see who else we can find!”

She received a similar reaction from most of the others Cleos introduced her to, with a couple of exceptions. Bronn Blackwater had been charming, while Osmund Kettleblack had been somewhat creepy, but both clearly looked like they relished the challenge of trying to get her into bed.

 _Not interested,_ Brienne thought grimly as she finally convinced Cleos that she was in dire need of a drink and headed back to the bar, trying to put memories of the bet out of her mind as she ordered a glass of Coke. Cleos was called away by a few of his friends from the bullpen, leaving Brienne alone at last. She took her soda and tried to find some discreet corner she could hide in until it was time for her autograph session.

~*~*~*~*~*

At ten minutes to one, an organizer came to get Brienne for her session. When her stomach growled, Brienne wished the bar had offered something in the way of food, but perhaps it was just as well. She’d probably just get sick if she’d eaten something, and anyway, her session was only an hour and then she’d be done for the day.

“You’ll do fine,” the young man who escorted her into the elevator said. She couldn’t see his name badge, but he looked to be around her age. “I heard Mr. Baelish debated whether to have you do a Q-and-A today then the autographs tomorrow, but the scheduling got messed up.” He glanced at her. “I get the feeling you’re grateful for that.”

Brienne nodded as her phone went off. She reached into her purse and pulled it out, finding that she’d missed three text messages: one from her father, one from Wylla, and the most recent one was from Dick Crabb. She smiled. He’d been in regular contact with her since news had gotten out about her being added to the 40-man roster, usually with advice for her as she “moved forward” as if he had a world of experience about the majors. Brienne touched the screen to see his first.

_Make sure to take advantage of the free food! These things have tons of that shit for the players!! And see if you can swipe a few souvenirs to bring back for the guys on the team._

Brienne snorted. She might bring back a souvenir for Dick, but to hells with the rest of them. She checked the message from her father, who asked her to get the legendary Arthur Dayne’s autograph if he was there (he was, but Brienne had been too terrified to get within ten yards of him). And Wylla’s just said “Kick ass and have fun!!”

Brienne stuck her phone back in her purse as the elevator doors opened. She took a deep breath and told herself that she could do this. She _could._ Besides, this was meeting with fans, not reporters looking for some juicy story. She’d met with fans before, before and after games. They were nice.

Most of the time.

Her handler led Brienne to one of the ballrooms. It was mostly empty except for a few other people working the event and the other four prospects who would be autographing alongside her. Brienne recognized three of the others sitting at the table—Dickon Manwoody, who had been with her AA team briefly last year before moving on to AAA; Flement Brax, the Royals’ first-round pick this year; and Victor Risley, who had been a September call-up and would likely make the team this year. She nodded to Dickon, who nodded back with a small smile. The unfamiliar young man at the table also smiled at her, but Flement and Victor looked disgruntled and it wasn’t hard to see why. The organizers had placed Brienne in the center of the table, where she was likely to draw the most attention. Not that it should matter, as this was an autograph session rather than Q-and-A, but she suspected this would be their placement tomorrow as well.

Brienne took her seat and clasped her hands in front of her. She looked to the unfamiliar man at the right end of the table. He gave her another shy smile.

“Podrick Payne,” he whispered. “Nice to meet you.”

Brienne recognized the name, and her heart sank. He’d been involved in the offseason deal that had brought Dickon Tarly to the team…and he was a catcher.

_Four catchers in the big-league camp…and he’ll be assigned to the AAA team. If I’m lucky, I’ll be his backup._

The last time Brienne had been someone’s backup had been her freshman year of college, and she’d accepted that as paying her dues even though she’d been better than what they’d had. Her sophomore year, she’d leapfrogged over the person who should’ve been the starter, to a lot of people’s fury (especially Loras Tyrell’s), but even when she’d been in rookie ball, she’d been the starter.

Brienne pasted a smile on her face and hoped it wouldn’t be long before the fans arrived. Thankfully, the organizers opened the doors a moment later, and she was spared the necessity of talking to any of them as the fans rushed in, making a beeline for her.

At first, Brienne took care to sign the baseball in an out-of-the-way place, having learned very early in the minors that one saved the “sweet spot” of the ball for someone more important to sign. (Not that her rookie ball manager had needed a reason to dislike her, but that hadn’t helped.) But about ten signatures in, she took a ball from a little girl of about eight and turned the ball to where she figured she should sign.

“No,” the girl said, pointing at the sweet spot. “Right here.”

Brienne hesitated, her pen hovering over the ball. “But…won’t you have others sign it, like Balon Swann or…or Danwell Frey?” 

“Mom got us tickets for Addam Marbrand and Osmund Kettleblack, but I want yours here.” The girl gave her a gapped-tooth smile, which Brienne returned before turning her attention to signing the ball. She handed it back to the girl, who called out, “Thank you!” before scampering back to her mother’s side to show her Brienne’s signature.

Brienne knew the tickets for the prospects were the freebies, because who would want to pay money for a signature that was worth little now and possibly worth less in the future? But she couldn’t help but notice that the line before her was longer than those of the other prospects. And it wasn’t full of girls, either. There were adults of both sexes, many who said that they were looking forward to seeing her play with the Royals someday as she signed whatever was put in front of her.

By the end of the session, her fingers cramped because of the number of autographs she’d signed. She stood up with a slight crick in her neck from being bent over so much, and even though it was only early afternoon, she was more than ready to sneak out of here and get back to her hotel.

Cleos, on his way to a Q-and-A session, caught up with her and noticed how she kept flexing her hand. “Better get used to that,” he said. “When you get to the majors, they love to send the rookies out for autograph sessions with the fans for some charity event or other. You’ll be a hot ticket.”

“You’re the first person aside from my father and my agent who’s wholeheartedly believed I was going to make it, but you barely know me,” she said. “Why?”

Brienne expected him to say something about how he’d studied her on video, or seen a couple of her college games, or noticed her in spring training during that brief time she’d caught him.

“You’re an SEC alumnus, like me,” Cleos said proudly. “We’ve got to stick together and show this league that we’re the best.”

Brienne burst into laughter, which was wrong of her. Cleos might not be very good at much beyond getting out left-handed hitters, but gods love him, he tried hard and his enthusiasm was infectious. “You’re absolutely right, Cleos,” she said. “If I make it to the majors, we’ll both show them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **MLB Notes and Trivia:**
> 
> First, all this information is based on what was going on in the MLB prior to 2020, as COVID-19 threw a real curveball into everything and I’m still not sure of all the changes.
> 
> Every MLB team has a 40-man roster consisting of the 25 players at the big-league level and fifteen minor leaguers who would be available to be called up to the majors if one of the players on the active roster is injured. A player can’t be called up to the majors unless they’re on the 40-man roster, so Brienne’s addition to this is a pretty big deal. However, since most teams only carry two catchers on the big-league roster, Brienne is right to think that she’s not likely to join the team until September.
> 
> Speaking of those “September call-ups,” prior to 2020, teams were allowed to expand their rosters on September 1—if they wanted, they could call up every member of the 40-man roster. This gave teams an opportunity to see how the minor leaguers would do at the big-league level as well as create added depth on the team’s bench and the bullpen.
> 
> “Dorne League” is the Westerosi MLB version of the Arizona Fall League (AFL). AFL runs about six weeks following the end of the minor league postseason and is an opportunity for minor leaguers (usually at the AA or AAA level) to play in front of major league scouts and team executives, who attend the games. Only seven players from each team’s minor league system are chosen for AFL play each year. Notable players who have participated in the AFL include Mike Trout, Mookie Betts, Bryce Harper…and Michael Jordan. 
> 
> Torii Hunter, who is quoted at the beginning of this chapter, played for the Minnesota Twins, the Los Angeles Angels, and the Detroit Tigers over his career, which spanned from 1997-2015.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there’s good news and bad news this week. The good news? This is the last chapter before we reach spring training, which means that the next chapter will feature the long-awaited meeting between Jaime and Brienne. The bad news? The cushion that I thought would allow me to post weekly has evaporated due to real life issues and my participation in the upcoming smut swap. So in order to give myself a little bit of a cushion until I reach the next part of the story that I’ve already written, I’m not going to be able to post next week. Sorry about that!!
> 
> [I’m on Tumblr!!](https://writergirl2011.tumblr.com)

“Baseball is too much of a sport to be called a business,  
and too much of a business to be called a sport.”  
~~Philip Wrigley

~*~

The sun was setting as Jaime left the garage, turning the stone Casterly Rock had been carved out of a perfect gold. Jaime thought it a fitting tribute to his father and he stood outside for a while in spite of the chill, letting the light fade out and twilight settle in before finally going back into the house. He thought about going to the grand family room, where he knew a good fire would be going in the fireplace, but he wasn’t quite ready to face anyone yet. He thought about going back to his room, but the four walls had closed in on him before all hells broke loose. He wasn’t sure he was ready to go back to it.

Even as he thought of all the places he could go, his feet took him in the only direction he could have gone. Jaime walked up the stairs, took the familiar left, and walked into his father’s study. It looked much the same as it had earlier, although he noticed that the chair on the left had a small nick in the upholstery. He stared at the desk, which was technically his along with everything else. He slowly walked up to his father’s desk, walked around to the side he’d never been on, and sat down.

“Good gods, you were a bastard,” he said as he sank into one of the most comfortable chairs ever. “Making us sit in those cheap-ass chairs while you got this.” He chuckled.

He heard a quiet tap at the doorway and looked up to find Tyrion standing there, brandy decanter in hand. “I thought I might find you here,” Tyrion said. He held up the two snifters in his other hand. “Care to join me?”

Jaime nodded and motioned for Tyrion to sit in one of the chairs across from him. Before Tyrion did so, however, he closed the door with his foot. He set the glasses on the desk, poured two healthy glasses of brandy, and gave one to Jaime. Jaime held it between his hands, allowing the warmth of his palms to heat the liquid within.

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and find it was all a nightmare.” 

“Yes,” Tyrion said, his voice a little strained. Jaime stared at him for a minute, knowing that he was holding back only because he knew how Jaime felt. Jaime was grateful but also slightly guilty. He knew how different Tyrion’s upbringing had been from Jaime’s. Tywin had blamed Tyrion for causing their mother’s death and although he had allowed him a role with the team, he had not treated him as someone who could be trusted to do anything right.

Jaime observed the slight slump of Tyrion’s shoulders as he stared at the amber liquid in the glass. “I’m sorry, Tyrion,” Jaime said quietly. “I know you hated him, and you must hate this.”

“You have no idea how much.” Tyrion bolted down about half the contents of the snifter.

“You’re right, I don’t.” Jaime took a much more moderate drink, feeling the burn of the alcohol as it slid down his throat.

Tyrion looked at him in surprise. “Thank you for not pretending.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you. I know what you went through.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Tyrion finished the rest of his drink and poured himself another.

Jaime felt a familiar churning of guilt in his gut, as he usually did whenever he thought about the relationship between his father and his brother. He’d never not thought about them without thinking he could do more to intercede, but he’d been too busy chasing his dream and spending what free time he could manage with Cersei.

“I know enough to imagine the rest,” Jaime said, taking another swallow of brandy to try and chase the feeling away.

“I honestly thought he’d do the fair thing in the end. I thought if he died, he’d recognize my contribution and the fact that Cersei was his daughter. I wasn’t so naive to think he’d leave it to us equally. You were always going to have the controlling interest, but twenty-five percent would be enough. It would be _something._ Turns out, even that was wishful thinking.” Tyrion’s fingers gripped the stem of the snifter so hard that Jaime wondered if he was about to throw it at him.

“I didn’t want—”

“That’s the worst thing. _You didn’t want it._ All you ever wanted to do was take the hill and play the game. You never had any interest into everything it takes to run a team. Not because you’re stupid, like Cersei thinks—”

“She doesn’t think that!”

Tyrion gave him a look that was a cross between doubtful and condescending. “—we’ll agree to disagree. Let me say that in my opinion you aren’t stupid, with the exception of what you’ve been doing with our sweet sister for the past, what, fifteen years? Twenty? Joff’s not yours because he’s a dead ringer for Robert, but I know you and Cersei were fucking before you left for Dragonstone.”

Jaime’s eyes darted around the room as though someone else was going to come in. “You’re drunk and you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaime said quickly.

“Oh, relax. I’ve always been a ‘live and let live’ person, and if you want to spend your life fucking one of the biggest bitches in Westeros, who am I to judge because she happens to be our sister?” Tyrion raised his glass to his lips and paused. “Now, if you ever decide to fuck a nice girl who doesn’t share our last name, I’ll hold a parade. Hells, she doesn’t even have to be nice.”

“But you don’t judge me,” Jaime said cautiously, not sure why Tyrion was bringing this up now. He’d always figured Tyrion knew about him and Cersei. Tyrion occasionally made oblique references to their relationship, but until tonight he’d never said anything outright.

Tyrion shrugged. “I’m not here to blackmail you with the information, if that’s what you’re wondering. You’re my brother and I love you. You should be ashamed you thought that.”

“You have to admit, the timing is suspicious.”

Tyrion’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “That’s the first time you’ve said something that reminds me of what Father would say. Perhaps there’s something about that chair that changes a man.”

Jaime felt the softness of the chair beneath him and wondered if that was true. “I meant what I said, Tyrion. I never wanted this, and I would change it if I could.” He set his snifter on the desk. “Do you have enough money?”

Tyrion’s eyes darkened as his face fell into sad lines. “Of course not,” he replied. “Less than three years away from being able to take that nice trust fund Mother left me and quadruple it. Instead, Father left it to flounder for years, barely touched. At the very least he could’ve been managing it in a way that it would turn a tidy profit until then.”

Jaime thought of the money he’d inherited four years ago when he’d turned thirty, and all the money he’d inherited just today. If he hadn’t inherited the Lions, it was possible, even likely, that he could’ve bought the team with everything he’d gotten, which was…daunting.

 _And won’t the guys in the clubhouse get a kick out of that once the news hits the media,_ Jaime thought. _I’ll never hear the end of it. They’ll expect me to buy drinks at every bar from Sunspear to Winterfell._

“Jaime?”

Jaime snapped out of his thoughts at Tyrion’s question. “Sorry. Just wondering what everyone else is going to make of this mess.” Then he realized that Tyrion would have loved to have his problem and shook his head. “Sorry, I…”

“Again, Jaime, you don’t have to apologize to me. You didn’t create this mess in any other way than by being your golden, perfect self. You couldn’t control that any more than I could control being born the way I am, and now...” Tyrion waved his glass around the room. “You’re sitting in that chair and I’m here, a supplicant begging you to give me a chance and some time.”

Ah. So now they were coming to the point. “You’re looking to put together a group to buy the team?” he asked.

Tyrion glared at him. “Don’t look at me that way. If I could buy it outright and keep it in the family, I would, but I just got done saying I can’t. With what I have, and what I can get from selling off those damned properties in Dorne, I think I can manage to get the controlling interest. If nothing else, I can get forty-one percent and count on Kevan and Genna to back me on anything important. Or rather, just Genna.” Tyrion took a small drink. “Overlooked in that mess earlier today is the fact that Kevan can’t own any part of the team either, not while he’s managing. Same rules apply, so I figure he’ll sell to Genna with the understanding that he’ll get it back if he ever decides to retire.”

“He’s never gonna retire,” Jaime said. “He could give it to one of his kids.”

Tyrion snorted. “Thank the gods I wasn’t drinking when you said that. Can you imagine if he did that? _Lancel_ would own five percent of the team, gods help us. No. He’s smarter than that. He’ll sell it to Genna.” Tyrion set his drink down. “Cards on the table time. I love baseball. I may not have been able to put on a uniform and step into a batter’s box, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less passionate about it than you are. The Lions are good. They’re one of the best in the Westerosi League, but they keep coming up short in the playoffs for one reason or another. Things I saw and knew and tried to tell Father, but he ignored me. I can make them better if given the chance.”

“As I play for the Royals, this isn’t exactly a winning argument,” Jaime quipped.

“Do you _ever_ take anything seriously?” Tyrion snapped. “Don’t treat me like Father did.”

Jaime sobered up immediately. “I didn’t mean it that way, I was only—”

Tyrion sighed. “I know. I know, I’m sorry, I just—dammit.”

“It’s been a tough day all around.” Jaime picked up his snifter and took a drink.

Tyrion made a noise of agreement. “I don’t know why Cersei wants the damned team. The only thing I can think of is that she doesn’t want me to have it, which she would think a good enough reason. But she doesn’t know baseball, Jaime, not like you and I do. Not like Father did. If you sell the team to her, she’ll probably start choosing players based on their attractiveness and expect them to put out for better contracts.”

“That’s not fair,” Jaime protested.

“Oh, really? This is a woman who recently put together a “MLB’s Hottest All-Stars” roster complete with rankings on their face, body, and reported sexual proclivities. Did you not see that?”

Jaime didn’t want to admit that he rarely went to Cersei’s corner of the Internet. On the occasions that he had, he’d been bored senseless by all the talk about high fashion, celebrity gossip, and “lifestyle suggestions,” although he’d occasionally read through “Cersei’s Tips to a Better Sex Life,” which was one of the more popular stops on her domain.

“Don’t worry—you were rated the best-looking starter on face, hair, and body, although because you’ve never been in a long-term relationship that anyone knows about, there was the usual speculation that you’re gay and the many women you’ve been with have been your cover story.”

Jaime rolled his eyes and tried not to think about how truthful that speculation was, at least about his casual dating life. He’d never been unfaithful to Cersei. Why would he want to stray when he had perfection? But they both knew he had to be seen dating or else people would think…well, exactly what some people thought.

Tyrion looked at Jaime with an intense look in his mismatched eyes. “I had my difficulties with Father, same as you. And I’m furious with him for what he’s done, but fuck me, I want to prove him wrong even if he’ll never know it. I want to prove to all of them that I can run a team better than Tywin Lannister ever could. I just need the chance.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can get enough money together for controlling interest. And someday, when I’ve made enough, I can buy out the others and the team will be wholly owned by the Lannisters again.”

Jaime blinked several times. “I need time, Tyrion. I need to…I don’t know, sleep on it, get some advice, clear my head a little so I can think straight.” He took a deep breath of his own. “And I can’t give you an answer without talking to Cersei first.”

The little light that was in Tyrion’s eyes seemed to die out. He got out of the chair and grabbed the neck of the brandy decanter. “Then I might as well not bother calling the Iron Bank.”

“Tyrion, I’m not saying no. I’m saying that I want to talk to Cersei to find out why she wants the team and decide what would be best.”

Tyrion scoffed. “As soon as she’s got you balls-deep inside her, you’ll sell her the team for one dragon.”

“There’s no need to be crass!” Jaime snapped. “And I resent the implication that I’m easy to manipulate with sex, or that Cersei uses sex in that way. You know nothing about our relationship other than what your lurid imagination dreams up, so stay out of it!”

Tyrion gave him a pitying look. “I know more about your relationship than you think. Especially about what Cersei gets up to when you’re on the road. Like Lancel.”

Jaime’s heart sped up slightly, sensing danger.

“Why do you think he went on an all-male religious retreat? Because he felt so guilty after he had an affair with Cersei that he had to get away for a whole fucking year. Then there’s Moonboy,” Tyrion said. “Remember him? Father traded him to Pentos because he found out Cersei was fucking him and he didn’t want to risk Robert finding out.”

“That’s not true,” Jaime said, heart going faster now. “Father needed an outfielder and—”

“He traded Moonboy, his best set-up man, for a bag of balls and an outfielder who couldn’t hit his weight.”

Jaime thought about the confusion around the league last year when Tywin had traded the All-Star reliever for so little. There had been rumors that there had been conflict in the clubhouse, but Moonboy was one of the nicest, funniest people Jaime knew so that had seemed unlikely.

But no. Moonboy was also loyal, and he wouldn’t fuck the boss’s daughter, especially not since she was married to the commissioner. Tyrion had to be lying to stick the dagger in because Jaime wanted to hear both offers.

“You could always ask your right fielder next time you see him to describe the color of the hair on Cersei’s cunt. Osmund Kettleblack should be able to describe it as well as than you can, since she fucked him for almost an entire week last summer while you were in Lys for the All-Star Game. Have the audacity to be named the starting pitcher for your league’s team, and your…girlfriend? Lover? What _do_ you call Cersei, anyway? Whatever she is, she fucked him while you were away.”

“Get out.” Jaime’s voice was barely audible but managed to fill the cavernous room.

“Just thought you’d want to know,” Tyrion said.

Jaime almost screamed at him, but nothing came out as he watched his brother walk out the door, closing it behind him.

_No. He’s wrong. He’s lying to get the team. Cersei loves me. She had to sleep with Robert because she married him, but that doesn’t count. We’re faithful to each other. He’s lying, and I’ll be godsdamned if I sell him the team now._

Jaime threw back the last of the drink and set the glass down and tried not to think about Tyrion’s lies. He cursed his father anew for what he’d done. Had Tywin been determined to sever Jaime’s tie with Tyrion, knowing how close the two were? Or had it been what Tyrion suspected, just one more way for Tywin to punish Tyrion for the crime of being born?

The second tap at the door came as Jaime was contemplating finding his own bottle of brandy and following Tyrion into what would undoubtedly be oblivion. He knew with absolute certainty who it had to be and wasn’t surprised when Cersei walked into the room without waiting for him to respond.

She’d changed out of the somber black dress she’d worn for the will reading and into a pale green shirt along with dark green sweatpants. She wore no socks or shoes. Her golden hair was pulled back into an untidy ponytail. And most surprising of all, she wore no makeup. This was the most casual Jaime had seen her since they were teenagers. Even when she was at home with her family, she always wore something elegant and trendy.

She looked young and almost vulnerable, and as she stood there just inside the doorway, Jaime cursed Tyrion as a fucking liar all over again.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said, closing the door with a gentle click. She walked to the desk and sat in the same chair recently vacated by Tyrion. She looked around the room. “I remember that Mother would sometimes let us come in here to look around when Father wasn’t home. Do you remember that?”

“I don’t have a lot of memories of her,” he admitted sadly, “but I do remember that. You know what seems weird to me about this room?” When Cersei shook her head, he went on. “No family photos. No portraits, no collage of pictures of us over the years, not even a picture of Mother. There’s nothing in here but Father’s professional life. Does that seem sad to you?”

“Not really,” she replied. “Maybe he didn’t want the distraction. Or maybe he saw this as Robert sees that gods-awful room where he keeps his ‘hunting trophies.’” She shuddered. “If Robert put up family photos in there, I’d worry that I might be his next target.”

“There’s a difference between a private office and a room full of dead animals. This was the room where Father kept the souvenirs of his team’s most important milestones. This is what he considered his professional legacy, but why wouldn’t he include some evidence of the legacy he considered equally important?” As he spoke, Jaime realized this was something that had always bothered him about this room. Not that he had a lot of experience being in the inner sanctums of other team owners, but gods, even Varys Spyder put up pictures in his office of someone he claimed was a relative—a gawky, purple-haired teenage boy he called Griff.

Cersei shrugged. “Look, I love my kids as much as the next mother, but I don’t put up pictures of them in my workspace.”

“That’s because your workspace is online,” Jaime said automatically, and then thought, _why not? You’re supposed to be a lifestyle guru. Wouldn’t children be included in that lifestyle?_

“Are we seriously going to talk about family pictures when you know we have more important things to discuss?”

“What’s more important than family?” Jaime asked.

“Don’t be a dumbass. You know what I mean.”

“I’m not—” Jaime cut himself off. Why was he fighting with her? He felt like he was taking his anger over Tyrion’s lies out on her, and gods knew she didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve him considering Tyrion’s lies for a second. “Yeah. I guess we do have other things to talk about.”

Cersei nodded and almost, but not quite, smiled. “Honestly, there isn’t much to talk about, but we do need to get everything settled as soon as possible—for your sake,” she hastened to add. “I don’t want you to miss a minute of spring training. I know how important that is for ballplayers, especially pitchers.”

Jaime nodded, and a niggling thought crept into his mind: _no shit, really? I never would’ve guessed that spring training might be important for ballplayers._ Then he told himself to stop being uncharitable.

“This whole mess comes down to simple facts. You can’t own the team and still play baseball. You love what you do and you’re in your prime.”

“Yeah, I heard I won ‘hottest starting pitcher’ on your website,” Jaime mumbled.

“You visit my site!” Cersei preened for a moment, then seemed to remember that she was now the one getting off topic. “You don’t want to own the Lions any more than you want to leave baseball, so you have to sell. Obviously, you’re not going to piss off everyone in the family by selling to outsiders.”

“That is an option,” Jaime said.

“The fuck it is,” Cersei said, her green eyes blazing with a fire Jaime had never seen before. “I waited almost all my life for Father to give me the chance to prove that I could learn about the ballclub and run it after he was gone, but whenever I suggested it, he patted me on the head and told me not to be a silly girl, that baseball was for boys.”

Jaime looked at her in surprise. Cersei had never once said anything to him about wanting to have anything to do with the team. She’d gone to college, gotten a degree in…hells, what was it? Not business or he would have remembered.

“I married Robert because I thought he would teach me what I needed to know, so I could one day go back to Father and ask him if he thought he knew better than the man he’d selected to be the sport’s leading authority. Instead, Robert shut me out almost as fast as Father did. I’ve _wilted,_ Jaime. I’ve been miserable and lonely and…and bored out of my fucking skull. And just when I thought maybe, _finally,_ I was going to get my chance because our father died and obviously he would leave the team to me—what does he do? He leaves it all to you.”

There were too many emotions going through Jaime’s mind for him to latch on to one and go with it. Why had she never told him how she felt before—about Robert, about Father, about everything? Why did she say she was miserable and lonely when he tried to spend as much time as he could find with her?

“You’ll never understand how it feels to be passed over time and again. No one will.”

“Tyrion does,” Jaime said, his voice far calmer than he felt.

“Fuck Tyrion!” Cersei snapped. “He killed our mother, but Father _still_ made him general manager of the team. That’s more than he ever allowed me. Father _owed_ me this chance, and it isn’t fair that he didn’t give it to me.”

Cersei sat back in her chair then, waiting for Jaime to respond. Jaime wasn’t sure what to say. She had a point—it hadn’t been fair of Tywin to leave her out of the business because she was a woman, and his will had been even more of an insult. (An insult to all three of them, really, but Jaime couldn’t think on that just now.)

“What’s your offer?” he asked.

Cersei gave him a cat-like smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I want the whole team,” she said. “With the money I inherited, along with financial support from Robert, I can afford it. I don’t figure it’ll be hard for me to convince Kevan and Genna to sell me their portions as well. Kevan’s never liked me, and Genna’s a bitch. I wouldn’t want her to get rich off my hard work.”

Jaime wanted to protest, about Genna at least, since she was his favorite aunt, but said nothing.

Cersei got up and walked around the desk. She straddled Jaime and leaned in close, the familiar scent of Chataya No. 5 filling his nostrils. She took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her.

“Obviously, I’m not going to rip you off,” she said as her body ever so subtly began grinding in his lap. “The other owners would never allow you to sell the team to me for a bargain basement price, but I would appreciate something of a…discount.” She kissed him then, a soft, gentle kiss that seemed to demand nothing though her words said otherwise.

And normally, Jaime would respond, would lose himself in this moment because that was the way things always were with them, but something about this whole situation was off. Tyrion’s angry words echoed in his mind: _“As soon as she’s got you balls-deep inside her, you’ll sell her the team for one dragon.”_

There was something else, and as Cersei’s hands slid to the buttons of his shirt, he thought, _We shouldn’t do this here. This is Father’s space. This is wrong._

Jaime always knew that the world would condemn his relationship with Cersei if it were ever exposed. Every time they snuck away to be with each other, they faced ruination and worse. He hadn’t cared. He’d loved Cersei all his life with a fierce intensity that nothing except baseball matched, and he hadn’t cared about the possible consequences of that love. They’d taken so many risks in so many places over the years—Robert’s office, Cersei and Robert’s bed in the middle of a party, on a balcony in Sunspear, and those were just the few he could remember off the top of his head—and none of it had mattered. All that mattered was the driving need they had to be together, to be the one soul born in two bodies that Cersei had always said they were.

_This is wrong. Not here._

It was the first time Jaime had had this thought.

“Cersei,” he murmured as she ran her hands up and down his sides, just as he liked. “Cersei, we can’t.”

“Of course we can,” she said, her breath hot in his ear.

“No, not here—not in Father’s—”

Cersei pulled away slightly. “You once fucked me in the owner’s suite at Gerion Park. That was Father’s too, but you weren’t so shy then.”

“This is different,” Jaime said, putting his hands on her hips to stop her ongoing movements.

“How? This is perfect. This is your office now…and soon it will be my office. I don’t care if we fuck in here, so why should you?”

Jaime stared at her. _This will never be hers, because Casterly Rock is mine,_ he thought with a rush of possessiveness. “It isn’t right,” he repeated, pushing at her to get off him. 

Cersei’s face reddened slightly. “You’re thinking of selling the team to Tyrion, aren’t you?” she asked, climbing out of his lap and returning to her side of the desk, though she didn’t retake her seat.

“It’s only fair that I do,” Jaime replied. “He’s my brother as much as you’re my sister, and—”

“So the rumors on my website are true? You’re secretly gay? Or would it be bi, since I felt the evidence, puny as it is, that you were hard for me just now?”

Jaime’s mouth dropped open. “I would never…you know that I love you. It’s always been you, always. Whatever I do with the team has nothing to do with our relationship.”

Cersei laughed. He’d heard this laugh before—a cold, cutting sound—but never before had it been directed at him. “Then you’re a fool,” she said. She placed both palms on the desk and leaned forward. “Tyrion will never own even a single bit of the Lions. I won’t allow it, and neither will Robert. Robert may be a useless drunk, but he knows it’s best to keep me happy. I want the Lions, and I will get them. My lawyers will send you my offer. I suggest you take it.” With that, she left, slamming the door behind her.

Jaime slumped in his chair, covering his face with his hand. He knew Cersei. She burned hot and bright for a time, then calmed down and saw reason. Sure, he usually had to sweet-talk her into seeing reason, but she saw it eventually. As for her take-no-prisoners approach to the team, that was ridiculous. She might think Robert would give in to her to keep her happy, but if he tried to block any potential sale of the team, especially if Jaime decided to sell it to Tyrion, he’d face a shitstorm of negative publicity. If things dragged on and kept Jaime from spring training or even, potentially, the start of the baseball season, Petyr Baelish would use every trick he knew to get things sorted out.

 _It didn’t have to be this way,_ he thought. _For the Seven’s sake, Father, why did you do this to us? You would’ve had to change your will in three years after Tyrion came into his inheritance from Mother anyway, so why not make a provision like the Baratheons did until I retired, then change things? Why leave them out completely, when you saw what it did to your own brothers? Gerion cut off contact altogether, and even though they said Tyg died of a brain aneurysm, we all know it was because of the stress he was under trying to get his share of the team._

He heard the door to the office open a third time—gods, who could it be now?—and the familiar clacking of very high heels walking into the room. Jaime straightened automatically, but Genna chuckled.

“No, no. I’ve already caught you slouching and sulking. No need to pretend you weren’t,” she said as she grabbed the chair on the left around to his side of the desk to sit beside him. “Go back to it.”

“I was calling it something between ‘wishing my father was here to help me figure out what the hells to do about this mess’ and ‘wishing my father was here so I could kill him for doing this to me.’ I guess slouching and sulking is the easier way to phrase that.” Jaime didn’t resume his previous posture despite his aunt’s permission. “Did you know he was going to do that?”

Genna hesitated. “Tywin never said it in so many words, so technically no. However, knowing Tywin as I do…did,” she murmured, and for a moment her grief broke through the calm façade she’d presented to everyone, “I’m not surprised.”

“I get that he wanted me to be more involved with the team,” Jaime said. “But why would he shut Cersei and Tyrion out completely? He should have given them, I don’t know, twenty percent ownership each so that I had the majority share, but at least we would all have something of the team. They would feel they had a say in what happened, but ultimately, I would have final authority. And they wouldn’t feel left out, which is what Father made them feel.”

Genna’s lips quirked into a smile but didn’t share whatever sparked her amusement. “I’m sure he had his reasons,” she replied. “I’m not going to ask you what you’re going to do now, because you need time to consider all your options.”

“I’m not retiring, so the way I see it, I have three options. One, I sell the team to Cersei. Two, I sell the team to Tyrion. Three, I sell the team to someone outside the family and we wash our hands of the Lions altogether.”

Genna gave him a disapproving look. “Don’t even joke about that last option, Jaime. I know you better than that, and even if you have no interest in the team, you’ll never sell outside the family.”

“So what do I do? Do I upset Cersei and sell to Tyrion, or upset Tyrion and sell to Cersei?”

“Frankly, I still don’t know what the hells Cersei wants with a baseball team. It’s not like she’s taken much of an interest in it before, but suddenly it’s what she has her heart set on.”

Jaime peered through his lashes at his aunt. “Do _you_ want to buy my share in the team?” 

She laughed—a loud, hearty cackle that cracked through the numbness Jaime had felt since first hearing of his father’s death and provided a spark of warmth. “Gods, no, Jaime. I love baseball, don’t get me wrong, but I much prefer sitting in the owner’s box as a guest, enjoying all the champagne I can handle and ogling young, strong, handsome men in uniform. I wouldn’t have it any other way. If I were to own the whole team, I’d be far too busy for all of that.”

Jaime almost smiled. “What would you do if you were me, Aunt Genna? Would you sell to Cersei or Tyrion?” He took a deep breath. “Or would you give up on the one thing you love more than almost anything else in the world to preserve the family’s legacy?”

“You’re asking me to do what I told you explicitly I wouldn’t do.”

“Yes,” Jaime said, “I am, because even though I’d love to have more time to think things through, I don’t have it.”

“You can give it a few days, at least.” Genna reached out to run her hands through his hair, tugged absently at his ear, and sighed. “You’ve always been so impulsive, Jaime, and that’s why I want you to think about this more than you want to. Whatever choice you make is going to permanently affect your relationships with both Cersei and Tyrion.”

Yet another reason to curse his father for what he’d done. Had Tywin considered that at all when he’d put together that bullshit? Had he wanted both of Jaime’s siblings to hate him?

“Having said that,” Genna continued, and finally Jaime smiled, because _of course_ there was no way Genna was going to let an opportunity to give her opinion pass her by, “there are a few things I don’t think you have a firm grasp on that you should take into consideration before making your decision.”

“Okay,” he said.

“If you sell the team to Cersei, she’ll run it into the ground within five years. She likes to think she’s your father with breasts, but watching your father at work all these years combined with the little practical experience she’s had in business is nothing close to what she needs to be able to run a successful baseball team.”

“She runs a successful business,” Jaime protested. “Even Father was impressed by how she was able to make something out of almost nothing. He scoffed at the idea of lifestyle influencing at first.”

Genna snorted. “Your father wasn’t impressed, he was perplexed. She traded on the family name to make that business successful and hired people to do the things she should’ve been doing herself. All she does is put her name on things and sometimes post something bitchy that her fans eat up, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she subcontracts _that_ out to someone else. No. The other baseball owners won’t give her that latitude. They’ll take advantage of her right and left, and she’ll be too stupid to see it until it’s too late. I’ll amend my prediction to ten years, but only if she uses what little common sense the gods gave her to recognize how much help Robert can give her.”

“Why only ten years with Robert?”

“Because Robert’s likely to drink himself to death by then. He’s a functioning alcoholic now. At some point, he’ll teeter over the brink. But until he goes over, he could be useful. Of course, that would require her to stop sleeping around the league first, or at least hide her activities better. Even a drunk like Robert is going to figure out someday that she’s cheating on him and has been for a long time. You only need to look at Myrcella and Tommen compared to the rest of the Baratheon clan to know that.”

It took all of Jaime’s strength not to react to what she’d said. He had to ignore the small sliver of fear at her mention of the children, because he couldn’t let himself go there. Which left him unable to escape her words about Cersei. 

_Why do you think Lancel went on that all-male religious retreat…I heard Father traded Moonboy because he found out he was fucking Cersei…ask your right fielder next time you see him to describe the color of the hair on Cersei’s cunt. He’ll be able to describe it as well as you can._

It couldn’t be true. Cersei had had to marry Robert because even Jaime wasn’t foolish enough to think they could expose their love for each other to the world, but she swore she’d stopped sleeping with him after she gave birth to Tommen. They’d promised to be faithful to each other when they’d been kids.

Jaime picked at a loose thread on his jacket cuff unable to look at her. “And now you’re going to tell me why I can’t sell to Tyrion, thereby leaving me only the option of retiring and taking over the team myself.”

Genna pulled back in surprise, but only for a moment. She put her hand on his arm and stilled the hand picking at his cuff. “Jaime, sweetling, I sat with your father in the hospital waiting room while you were born. When he first held you, he smiled so much he hardly looked like himself.”

“Dad smiled?” Jaime gave her a doubtful look.

“If I’d had a camera with me, I’d have snapped his picture as proof.” She smiled. “Or for blackmail, whichever I needed.” She became serious again, her eyes boring into his. “When it comes to baseball, you’re built like Gerion and have Tyg’s talent, and you have an instinct for knowing how to read situations on the field and gauge the temperature of a clubhouse like Kevan does, which will make you a fine manager after your playing days are over. But _Tyrion_ is the one who inherited your father’s business acumen, not you. The fact that you’re sitting here contemplating your options and not even considering taking over the reins of the team yourself is proof enough of that. If Tyrion had inherited the team, he’d be sitting in your chair, preparing to implement the plan he’s been sitting on for years to make the Lions the best team in the majors.”

Jaime wondered if he should be insulted by this. Obviously his father hadn’t agreed, otherwise he would’ve left the team to Tyrion and not him. And it wasn’t like he was a complete idiot about business. As Tywin had pointed out in his will, he’d given Kevan and Genna a stake in the team to provide him with a guiding hand, so Tywin had known that Jaime would need some help until he found his feet.

Yet her words pierced through the confusion and frustration, and he knew she was right. Almost every manager he’d played for had praised him for being a natural leader in the clubhouse, but that wouldn’t translate into being the type of shark his father had been…the type of shark his brother could be if given the chance. Jaime had been born to play ball, and when his arm finally packed it in for the day, he’d still want to be part of the action on the field somehow. He’d be bored senseless within a week if he ended up stuck behind a desk.

“Then why did he leave the team to me instead of Tyrion?” Jaime asked. “He was a master of figuring out how people could be useful to him. Tyrion was his son as much as I was, but you’re saying…”

“Because even men as brilliant as your father can be blinded by their prejudices,” Genna said. “I told your father once that he was being a fool because anyone could see that Tyrion was turning into a wastrel because he was bored. He didn’t speak to me at all for six months and was chilly for another six, but I like to believe that he listened to me a little, which is why he made Tyrion the general manager three years ago after Mace Tyrell retired. Even then, he didn’t follow through on half of Tyrion’s suggestions for trades and free agent signings.”

Genna got up from the chair. Jaime, out of long habit, stood up as well and earned a smile from the woman who had been instrumental in teaching him manners.

“In your heart, Jaime, you know what you should do. You know what’s right. You know what will be best for the Lions, and what will be best for you.”

“Maybe I could split my share between them evenly,” Jaime said. “Then, with you and Kevan, or Lancel or whoever he turns over his share to, having the remaining ten percent, they’d have to try and get along.”

Genna laughed again as a flush crept up Jaime’s neck because now she was laughing at him. “You sweet summer child,” she said. “I know why you’re thinking about doing that, and you know that’s the worst possible thing you can do.” She sighed. “I know Tyrion doesn’t have the money to buy the entire team, so tell him to come to me. I don’t have enough to buy the entire team on my own, either, but between us I think we can make it work to keep the Lions entirely in Lannister hands. I’ll take a chunk of the team for now. When he’s built up his empire in ten years, he’ll buy it back from me. But warn him that he won’t get any family discounts. I’ll expect to make a nice profit on my investment, and I have every confidence that he’ll provide it.”

“Cersei will never forgive me,” Jaime said quietly.

Genna reached up and patted his cheek. “I’m sure she will, if she gets desperate enough. The question is, will you forgive her?”

Jaime swallowed heavily. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

Genna shook her head. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Your father may not have known, or maybe he just didn’t want to look. If I thought it would’ve done either of you any good, I would’ve said something years ago, but I know how Cersei is when she wants something, and I know that you’ll do just about anything for the ones you love.” She tugged his ear again, a little harder than she had before. He winced. “I pray that when Robert finds out about Cersei’s infidelities—and he will—that you’re not still around for him to suspect. You’re a good man, Jaime. You deserve a good woman, and though I love her…Cersei’s not a good woman.”

Genna let go of his face and left him alone. Jaime immediately returned to his chair and slumped in it, going over everything again and again. 

Jaime thought about the pain in Tyrion’s eyes as he’d talked about wanting to own the team, and the bitterness that he would never have the chance. He thought about the cold cruelty as Tyrion had hurled his accusations about Cersei at him. Accusations that, if Genna was to be believed, were true. And why would Genna lie?

He thought about the look on Cersei's face as she talked about being passed over and how she deserved a chance to love herself. He thought about Genna saying there might not be a team in five years, or at least not one owned by the Lannisters, if he sold to Cersei. And he thought of the hot fury in Cersei’s eyes when he’d rejected her advances. He thought about Lancel…and Osmund Kettleblack…and Moonboy.

Jaime thought about what would be best for the team and for himself.

At last, he got up from his chair and left the room, heading toward the wing where the family’s bedrooms were, until he found the small room at the corner of the house that was always the coldest. He tapped on the door and waited ten seconds for the sullen, “Come in” before opening the door.

Jaime walked in and closed the door behind him. “Tyrion, make me an offer. And don’t insult my intelligence. I may not be Father, but I have a good idea of what the team’s worth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **MLB Notes and Trivia:**
> 
> How much would the Lannisport Lions be worth on the open market? Good question. The MLB team worth the most money is (surprise surprise) the New York Yankees, valued at $5B as of 2020, while the Miami Marlins are worth a mere (ha!) $980M. However, the Yankees play in the largest TV market as well as the largest metropolitan area. Lannisport would not qualify on either front even before taking the Essos cities into consideration. So if I had to guess, I’d say that Lannisport, given its size and the wealth in the region, would be considered a big-market team but not the most valuable. 
> 
> Since I have no clue about the current exchange rate on the US dollar compared to the Westeros dragon, I’ve decided that the amount Jaime and Tyrion agree on is around 1.2 billion dragons. As to how much Tyrion inherited: his mother left him a trust fund worth 300 million dragons. Tywin left him 150 million. And the property he inherited in the Reach is worth another 200 million, so he does have the money to meet Genna halfway in ownership of the team.
> 
> Philip Wrigley, who is quoted at the beginning of this chapter, was the majority owner of the Chicago Cubs from 1933 until his death in 1977. The Cubs mostly foundered during his ownership, but he did do one major thing of note: he was the founder of the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League, immortalized in _A League of Their Own_.
> 
> By the way, his cause of death? Gastrointestinal hemorrhage. I couldn't have made that up if I tried.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I didn't intend to delay the next chapter of this story so long, but I got wrapped up in the smut swap and then hit a little problem getting this chapter written. However, it's now here, the next chapter is almost done, so here we go with Spring Training!!
> 
> A million thanks as always to my beta, waxedpaperdoor!!
> 
> [I'm on Tumblr!!](https://writergirl2011.tumblr.com)

I've always approached spring training as I have something to prove.  
~~Jamie Moyer

~*~

The flight from Evenfall to Salt Shore, where the Royals shared spring training facilities with the Pyke Krakens, was long and bumpy. The Stormlands had decided to earn their nickname early this year, Brienne thought irritably as she waited for the line of passengers to clear out before she attempted to stand from her seat. She’d been crowded into a little economy seat that left her short of room and her legs had been killing her for the past two hours. She’d been stuck next to an annoying dark-haired preteen boy who snickered at her before spending most of his time playing Tyroshi pop music through his headphones loud enough for half the plane to hear him, despite his mother’s repeated admonishments to turn the volume down before he went deaf. (Brienne normally enjoyed T-pop, but not today.)

The boy had darted off toward the front of the plan before it came to a full stop, his mother shouting, “Edric! Edric Storm, get back here!” to no avail.

When the line finally moved, Brienne stood up, careful not to hit her head on the overhead compartment. She edged toward the aisle and, once there, stretched up on her toes to try and relieve the cramping. She wished she could stretch her arms as well, but she knew she’d look ridiculous and besides, the cabin was only seven feet high and she didn’t have room for a full stretch.

Brienne grabbed her small purse and looped the strap over her head and across her body, then slid her large duffel bag from the overhead compartment. She slung it over her shoulder and walked toward the exit, nodding at the courteous flight attendants who welcomed her to Salt Shore and hoped she enjoyed her stay.

Brienne made a beeline for the bathroom, then took an escalator downstairs to baggage claim. As she waited for her large suitcase to make its way to her, she heard her phone chime to notify her of a text message. She pulled it out of her pocket.

_Hey Forley drove all the way down here says hes willing to drive us around as long as we give him gas money so dont get a car_

Brienne smiled at the message from Cleos. He and his wife, Jeyne, had insisted on taking her to dinner after the last night of the Royals Parade, where Cleos had asked Brienne if she would be interested in staying with him and two other relievers. 

“Are you sure they’d want to share a place with me?” she asked, because not once in the three years that she’d been in the minors had a teammate ever offered to share a place with her, not even Nimble Dick.

“Oh, sure! Dontos and Forley are good guys—well, Dontos drinks more than he should, but he’s still a good guy. And Forley’s, well…”

“He’s a cheapskate,” Jeyne said bluntly. “He purchased the place about four years ago when he first came to the Royals, fixed it up, and now he rents out rooms to those of his teammates who are willing to put up with him during spring training.”

“He’s not that bad, he’s just…”

“Forley Prester would invite half the team to live with them so he could collect rent money despite the fact that as the closer, he makes more than the rest of the bullpen combined.”

“Now, dear, he’s got a point. He won’t keep those millions by spending them on everything in sight,” Cleos said.

“I wouldn’t mind that so much if it weren’t for the fact that he insists that everything be split down the middle while you stay there in addition to paying rent.” Jeyne turned to Brienne and said, “He’s the kind of guy who orders the most expensive items on the menu and then, when it’s time to settle the bill, insists on everyone paying an equal share rather than figuring out who ordered what. _And_ he never tips.”

Cleos smiled. “Jeyne and I met in college when she waited tables, so she’s got a soft spot for the food service workers. But listen, Forley’s place is nice. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms for us to use. Good internet service, great cable package, decent enough kitchen, I guess. It’s in a great location not far from the beach and about fifteen minutes from spring training.”

Brienne asked, “How much would it be?” she asked, suspecting that it would be out of her price range.

“Eight hundred,” Cleos said.

“Plus your share of the groceries, and later on he sends you a bill for your share of the water and electric when he gets the totals.”

 _“Dear,”_ Cleos murmured.

Brienne bit her lip. She usually rented a dingy room at a hotel that charged by the week—rooms where the beds were never big enough and were always uncomfortable, where the nearest laundromat was fifteen minutes away, and she tried not to think about what creatures might be sharing the room with her. But the rent on those places was significantly less dragons a week than what Forley would charge her.

“I’m afraid I can’t afford that much,” she said. “It sounds great, but I don’t make the kind of money to be able to afford eight hundred a week.”

Cleos looked confused for a moment. “Oh, no! No, no, no. It’s eight hundred for the entire stay. Forley’s cheap, but he’s not _that_ bad, despite what Jeyne would have you think. He’s not going to gouge his teammates.”

“Because they wouldn’t put up with it,” Jeyne said. “Eight hundred was the most anyone was willing to pay to stay with him.”

 _Eight hundred dragons for what would probably be about six weeks._ “Have you talked to him about this?” she asked. “About me, I mean? He’s okay with it being me?”

“That won’t matter, as long as you pay up front,” Jeyne said at the same time Cleos exclaimed, “Sure!”

Brienne knew she should give it more thought, because she was sure there would be more catches than just the ones Jeyne kept bringing up. It seemed a little hinky to her that someone would charge his own teammates money to stay with him. But the advantages, as far as she could see, far outweighed the risks.

Brienne wished she could debate whether or not she wanted to be dependent on Forley Prester for transportation, but she hadn’t intended to rent a car, anyway. She fired off a quick affirmative answer to Cleos, let him know she’d arrived in Salt Shore, and used her Lyft app to secure a ride from the airport.

~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning, as Forley looked for a place to park in the lot designated for players, Brienne tried not to get too nervous about the first day of spring training. It wasn’t like she’d never been here before. In fact, this was where she’d started out soon after signing her minor league contract almost three years ago, one rookie out of the forty who had been assigned to come here to be assessed and critiqued before the determination was made for her to start her career with the Royals’ single-A team. This was where she’d spent each of the past two springs, one catcher out of many who was considered expendable once the team began assigning players to the minor league camp. And now here she was, one player on the forty-person roster who maybe wouldn’t have the best chance to make the team, but who wasn’t going to be sloughed off on the minor league camp after a few days.

Forley finally found a place not quite at the end of a row, but far enough away that it wasn’t likely anyone was going to park near him. “Don’t want to risk the resale value of the car by some idiot banging his door into mine,” he said as he turned off the engine.

Dontos Hollard groaned as he took off his seatbelt. “Dammit, why can’t practice start in the afternoon? It’d give me time to wake up and be worth a damn out there.”

“You’d think it was too early if they started practice at 3 pm. Careful when you close the door that you don’t slam it,” Forley said to Brienne as she got out of the car.

Brienne nodded solemnly and only just kept from rolling her eyes. She reminded herself that arriving to practice in a nice SUV beat taking public transportation any day of the week and gently closed the door as requested.

The four of them made their way toward the players’ entrance to the facility, Cleos and Forley making almost obscene noises about some of the cars they passed. Brienne admired them about as much, albeit with much less noise, taking particular note of a Wheelhouse that looked like it could take on the steepest of the Red Mountains easily enough. She had a secret love of cars and dreamed of the day she’d own something newer than the fifteen-year-old heap she currently drove.

Cleos reached the entrance first and held the door for the others. Brienne thanked him, which the others did not, as she walked in. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the relative darkness when compared with the bright sunshine they’d soon be returning to, but once she had, she noticed that the major league amenities looked much the same as the minor league ones. A little nicer furnished, perhaps, but on the walls hung similar pictures of teams past, banners, and pennants. There was a display case, she noted, with the Royals’ single World Series trophy within along with some memorabilia from the team who won it. Brienne wandered over to it, even though she knew all the details—won nearly thirty years ago, some said, thanks to a blown call by the first base umpire in Game Six. She stared at the photos of the team in their moments of triumph, closing her eyes and thinking of what it would be like to…

“Brienne? Are you coming?” Cleos interrupted her thoughts.

“Yeah,” she said, turning away from the display and walking toward the hallway where the clubhouse would be…for the rest of the team. Cleos again held the door as Forley and Dontos walked through and motioned for Brienne to join them. She took a step back and gave him a look.

“Oh! Oh, right. Of course,” Cleos said, looking flustered. “Of course, you’ll have your own place. Right. Should’ve thought of that. Well…see you on the field!” He walked into the clubhouse, the door closing behind him.

Brienne felt the familiar pang of being the outsider in this world and told herself to set it aside. She didn’t have time to hash out her old issues because she had to find the clubhouse manager to see about her uniforms and equipment, and then— 

“Tarth! There you are.”

Brienne’s head whipped around to see Barristan Selmy standing at the door of his office, across the hall from the locker room. Although she’d seen him in person before, this was the first time he’d spoken to her directly. He gave her an assessing look, then nodded and said, “I need to see you in my office.”

Brienne felt her stomach drop. Was he about to tell her a mistake had been made and she wasn’t supposed to be here? _Don’t be ridiculous, of course you’d be here anyway because you’re a catcher._ But he might tell her that the team had just traded for a new position player and she’d been knocked off the 40-man roster, or that the team had decided she’d be going to the minor league camp since they had three catchers already, or…

Selmy cleared his throat. Brienne felt her cheeks grow hot as she realized she hadn’t said anything or moved into the office as requested. “S-sorry,” she mumbled as she sped past him into the room.

Selmy’s office was spacious, as befit one of the premier managers in baseball. He had team photos on the walls, a large wall calendar already crammed full of deadlines, notations, and the spring training schedule, a shelf full of binders that Brienne knew were relics of when scouting reports were on paper rather than digital, and a desk that seemed more imposing than it was. There was a door off to one side that Brienne figured led to a private bathroom, and against one wall there was a locker where several uniforms hung, with cleats on the shelves below. The shelf above the shirts was empty, but above that were cubbyholes with several bats slotted within.

Brienne heard Selmy close the door behind him. “Have a seat, Tarth,” he said as he walked around to his side of the desk and sat down.

Brienne sank into the comfortable chair across from him, setting her small purse beside her. She folded her hands in her lap and forced herself to look at him. He was tall, with close-cropped white hair and pale blue eyes that looked as though he could figure out everything he needed to know about someone with just one look. Although he had thickened out a bit since his playing days, Barristan Selmy looked like he was just a few weeks of exercise away from being able to start at third base like he was a man thirty years younger.

“So,” he said with another assessing look. “I didn’t get a chance to meet with you at the Royals Parade. I was told you took off as soon as your sessions were done.”

“Uh, yes, sir, I…I wasn’t really sure what to do when I was finished, and no one said anything, so I…left.” And now she wondered if maybe she should’ve stayed. Had leaving been a black mark against her?

“Hmm.” Selmy folded his hands and placed them on his desk, leaning forward. “I admit, I was disappointed that we didn’t meet. If we had, we might’ve been able to settle a few things before spring training started.”

Brienne nodded. She knew what was coming. She’d heard a variation of it at every stop on her way to get here: _Don’t go out getting hammered and taking home whatever random guy’s willing to sleep with you. Don’t make any disparaging comments about the club, especially not about how they treat you. Don’t be any more of a distraction for the guys than you already will be._

“For starters, what we’re going to do to provide you with a locker room and shower facility.” Selmy frowned. “This is something that should’ve been taken care of long before now, but what have you been doing the last couple years?”

Caught off-guard, Brienne said, “Well, the clubhouse manager would provide me with my uniforms and equipment and then I’d talk with the janitors about which storage room would be okay for me to use to keep my things in. I’d change in the women’s restroom.”

Selmy’s frown deepened. “What about showers?”

“Um…” This _really_ wasn’t what she’d expected to talk to the team’s manager about, and certainly not now. “Well, I would just wait until I got back to my hotel room and...and shower then.” Which had been somewhat embarrassing as she took public transportation, but there hadn’t been anything more she could’ve done.

“Why didn’t you say anything about this?” Selmy looked thunderous now. “For the Seven’s sake, you’re just as much a part of this organization as every guy on the team. You deserved to take a shower once your day was over without having to wait to get home to do it.”

“I…I didn’t want to cause any trouble,” Brienne mumbled, bowing her head and staring at her hands.

She heard Selmy sigh. “Godsdammed Baelish. All right. We can’t change what happened before, but we can make sure that your needs are accommodated going forward. And I _will_ be having a talk with Baelish about what’s going to be done for you if you make the team. If nothing else, the press will have a field day if they come for a postgame interview and find you in a storage closet.”

Her heart skipped at his words. _If you make the team._ Said casually, as if she were any other player sitting here and not said with doubt or derision. “Thank you.”

“And since nothing has been set up for you this year, you’ll use my office to get ready in.” Selmy pointed to the locker by the restroom door. “That’s your locker. Already got your uniforms, cleats, undergarments, and everything else you’ll need. Shower’s through there, but you probably figured that.”

Brienne looked up in surprise. “I couldn’t put you out, sir, uh, Mr. Selmy…uh, Skip—”

Selmy gave her a craggy smile. “Skip’ll be fine, kid. As for this situation, don’t worry about it. I’ve got things I can do while you’re getting ready before and after, and I’ll always be here before you. Especially since you’re staying with Prester and Hollard.”

Brienne pressed her lips together to keep from smiling, although she’d already suspected that he would be right on that score.

“Next thing I wanted to talk to you about was the press. I’m surprised we didn’t have as much around here the last couple years when you were here, but I guess some people thought when we didn’t call you up right away that you’d washed out.”

Brienne inhaled sharply, trying to hold in her anger. Several of the phone calls she’d received from the press after word had gotten out about her being added to the 40-person roster had mentioned their surprise that she was still around.

“You’ve handled things well so far, but I’m sure your people have told you that it’s going to be a lot worse now that there’s a strong chance you’ll be with the big-league team at some point this year.”

“My people? I don’t have people—I mean, my dad and my agent, but that’s pretty much it.”

Selmy sighed. “I had a feeling you were going to say that. Look, we have a team publicist, but that’s not the same as having someone yourself.”

Brienne nodded. “Wylla—my agent—she said the same. And if I have to, I’ll find someone, but honestly…I just want to do my job, or try to do my job. And even if I make the team, I don’t have the money to hire someone to tell me what to say when I’m off the field.” 

Selmy’s look told her what he wouldn’t say—that he thought her a fool. But he nodded all the same. “Last thing. If you start getting flak from any of the guys—”

“Skip, it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” Brienne said, trying not to sound resigned.

“I don’t care. I have a zero-tolerance policy for that kind of bullshit—racism, homophobia, and now sexism. I don’t expect the guys to watch their mouths around you because they’re guys, so there’s gonna be rough language and off-color jokes, but if there’s something that crosses a line or gets personal, let me know.”

Brienne nodded, although she knew she wouldn’t.

“All right. I’m headed out so you can get ready. See you on the field.” Selmy rose from his chair and extended his hand. Brienne shook it, hoping her hand wasn’t too sweaty. “I look forward to seeing what you can do, Tarth.”

“Thank you.” Brienne waited until the door closed behind him before she stood and walked over to the locker. Her fingers brushed the sleeves of the uniforms, each with her assigned number of 87 on the back along with her name. She knew they’d be her size—she’d sent her measurements to the company that made the uniforms, as she did before every spring training. She glanced at the bats in their cubbyholes, knowing they’d be her specified length and weight. The shoes would be her size as well.

Brienne glanced up at the clock on the wall and saw that it was quarter to eleven. No more time to take in having her own locker, even if it was in the manager’s office. The first workout began in fifteen minutes, and she would be ready.

~*~*~*~*~*

Despite the fact that it was still technically winter, the temperature had climbed into the low eighties by the time practice began and the sun was out in full force. Brienne went through the warm-up paces along with the almost three dozen pitchers and the other six catchers present, knowing that she would be sweating profusely even before she donned her catcher’s gear and crouched behind a plate for defensive drills and then to handle the pitchers needing to get into season-ready form.

Not that she cared. She loved the first day of spring training, when anything was possible and she’d get the opportunity to catch some of the best in the game—Bronn Blackwater and his wicked slider, Lewys Piper’s devilish curveball, and Forley’s fastball, which sometimes got up over a hundred miles per hour. She might even get a chance to catch the Royals’ ace, Jaime Lannister, although apparently not today as she hadn’t seen him anywhere.

First, though, came the defensive drills. Brienne watched as the other catchers worked on blocking junk in the dirt, framing pitches on the corners, throwing to second with as much speed and accuracy as possible, and fielding bunts. Danwell Frey put on a clinic behind the plate, and Brienne wondered if she should watch yet more footage to figure out just _how_ he managed that throw behind a batter so consistently to first base to catch stray baserunners. Brienne watched as Alliser Thorne was put through his paces, then the kid in AAA, Podrick Payne. Both of them struggled to do half as good a job as Danwell had—Thorne’s arm didn’t have nearly the speed, and Payne had difficulty with pitches in the dirt. Brienne wasn’t sure how she rated compared to the starter because she put all thoughts like that out of her head when it was her turn, but afterwards she liked to think she’d done fairly well. Not as good as Danwell, because that wasn’t possible, but better than Payne and possibly better than Thorne.

And then it was time to handle live pitching. Brienne took her place alongside the other catchers in a row of home plates and had no time to care about who she caught. The only time she knew for certain who was throwing to her was when she started getting a barrage of knuckleballs courtesy of Steelshanks Walton. She cursed under her breath and did her best to figure out where the hells his pitches were going to go. She wasn’t always successful, and when she noticed Harlan Grandison, the bench coach, staring at her, she prayed this wouldn’t be held against her, but she put the thought out of her mind as yet another knuckleball headed her way.

Brienne was grateful for the few minutes to rest between each group of pitchers, but by the time they reached the break before the last bunch, her knees felt ready to pack it in for the day. She fell back on her butt, feeling the ache in her legs. _The first day’s always the hardest,_ she thought, even though they didn’t get easier after this. She removed her mask and helmet, the breeze lifting limp strands of her hair.

“I always forget how rough it is, starting out,” Podrick said beside her. He rubbed at his knees. She made a noise of agreement. “Hey, um, I heard you were staying with Forley Prester and that bunch.”

Brienne glanced at him. “Yes?”

“I-I don’t suppose there’s room for another, is there? It’s just—I was all set to stay with a friend of mine who comes down here every year for spring training, but he got into a car wreck three days ago and obviously had to cancel. So I got a hotel room for tonight and it’s not a great place, but I can’t afford anything else.”

Brienne remembered what Jeyne Frey had said. “I can’t say yes because it’s not my place. You’d have to talk to Forley, but there’s a good chance he’ll say yes. Only thing is that there isn’t another bedroom, so you might have to sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t care. It’s got to be better than the place I stayed at last night. I could hear things crawling around.” Podrick smiled at her.

Brienne nodded absently as the last group of pitchers walked over to begin. She shoved her helmet back onto her head, slipped the mask over it, and rose to her knees, wondering who her last pitcher would be. Surely it couldn’t be any worse than catching Walton without the proper mitt.

Brienne crouched down and waited for the first pitch, which for some reason was a little time in coming. She was about to stand up to give her knees a break when the pitch bounced in the dirt, took a funny hop and skipped away from her. Someone down the line snickered, and she wondered if everyone had stopped to watch them. Ridiculous, of course, as she heard the familiar _pop!_ of ball hitting glove six times over.

She glanced over at the person standing on the mound across from her. A man of average height, stout, with a face like a frog’s. Brienne recognized him instantly as middle reliever Janos Slynt, a non-roster invitee to camp.

Brienne took a deep breath and waited for the next pitch. Slynt hesitated, as if he were waiting for her to call something, and then he threw. Again, the pitch was in the dirt. Brienne was able to block it with ease and fired the ball back to him. She expected his next pitch to be in the dirt as well since apparently that was what he was trying to work on, so she was caught unprepared when his next pitch was a high fastball that hit her chest protector and bounced away. _Dammit._ She heard laughter again and when she looked over in that direction, she saw Alliser Thorne’s head turned her way.

Hardison barked, “Thorne! A little less attention to what’s going on over there, a little more attention on Frey!”

Brienne’s cheeks blazed with heat and she glared at Slynt, who gave her a little smirk as he rubbed up another ball, and then she knew it was no accident.

_He’s not getting another one by me, by the gods._

And he didn’t. No matter what Slynt threw at her—pitches that were a touch too far outside, pitches way too high, pitches in the dirt, pitches that were perfectly placed—she caught it. She didn’t realize how much time had passed until she heard Selmy shout, “Knock it off, Slynt! We’re done for the day!”

Brienne wanted to collapse on the ground, but damned if she’d give him the satisfaction. With a spryness she didn’t feel, Brienne popped up and ran after one of the balls that had gotten away. She was tempted to throw it at his head, and from the smirk on his face, he knew it. He also knew she wouldn’t do it. With a final glare at him, she tossed the ball into a bucket with the rest of the used balls, trying to ignore the fact that the entire team had watched the last couple of minutes of the session because she’d been too busy trying to keep up with Slynt to realize that Selmy had called an end to practice.

Brienne wanted to run away and cry in private, but she wouldn’t do that, either. She noticed Podrick standing not too far away, looking almost awestruck, though she had no idea why. “C’mon,” she said. “Let’s go talk to Forley about you moving in with us.”

She walked away from the rest of the team without a backward glance.

~*~*~*~*~*

Which wasn’t to say that Brienne didn’t cry later, after everything was settled with Podrick becoming the fifth member of their little group at Forley’s house. She was able to keep herself composed long enough to get through that. She was even able to make small talk with Cleos and Dontos, who suggested skipping out on the lunch spread in the clubhouse and going to a bar Dontos knew nearby for a “real” lunch.

Once she was alone in the shower, she broke down. _Why does it always have to be the same no matter where I go? Why can’t I catch a break just once and not be the joke? Why can’t these guys accept that I’m just as good as some of them?_

Tears quickly gave way to anger. What made her seethe even more was the fact that it had been Janos Slynt who had done that to her. He was a _non-roster invitee,_ someone who didn’t have the guarantee of a place on the godsdamned forty-person roster as she did, much less a spot on the team. But because he was a man, and she was a woman, he’d felt he had the right to try and embarrass her.

Brienne wanted to pound her fists on the concrete walls of the shower, but like her desire to throw a ball at Slynt’s head, she couldn’t do that, either. All she could do was go out there and do her best to ignore what they dished out and hope she made enough of an impression to be called up in September.

Brienne didn’t want to take too long in the shower—Selmy was being kind enough to share his facilities with her and she didn’t want to take advantage. Besides, the guys were waiting for her to go to lunch, although she wished she’d thought to ask Podrick to sneak her a sandwich from the clubhouse spread so she wouldn’t have to spend much money on wherever the hells they were going.

She dressed quickly, slicked her hair back into a vicious knot at the top of her head, grabbed her purse, and threw open the door just as someone was prepared to knock. It was only her quick reflexes which kept her from getting a broken nose for the third time in her life as she took a step back 

The man on the other side recovered from his missed knock and also stepped back. “You’re not Selmy.” His green eyes raked her up and down as a small smile played on his lips. “I’ll be damned. The old man’s finally loosened the chastity belt, though I wouldn’t have expected you to be his type.”

Brienne gaped at him. “I am _not_ …I am…”

“Oh, relax. I won’t tell anyone I saw you here, although I don’t make any promises not to tease him about you from time to time.” He winked, and Brienne saw red.

“I am _not_ some…some _groupie,”_ she hissed.

“Of course you’re not.” The man shrugged and ran a hand through his chin-length blond curls. “Where is Selmy, anyway?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, when you catch up with him, would you let him know I made it to camp and I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow morning?”

Brienne opened her mouth to tell him where he could shove his message just as the door across the hall opened and Cleos stepped out. 

“Hey, Forley and the other guys are ready when you—Jaime!”

The man grimaced slightly before turning to greet Cleos. “Hey, coz,” he said with forced cheer. “Good to see you.”

“Same here, same here. I take it things are officially final with you, Mom, and Tyrion?”

Brienne took another step back as she realized that the man who’d just implied she was a groupie was none other than Jaime Lannister. She felt foolish for not recognizing him right away, but then she wasn’t used to seeing him in street clothes and without a baseball cap on his head.

“Not quite yet, but we’re far enough along that I’ve been approved to come to spring training,” Jaime replied.

“That’s great, just great. Listen, me and the guys and Brienne were going to grab lunch at Gargalen’s, if you want to come with us?”

“Brienne? Who’s Brienne?”

Cleos grinned and pointed at her. _“She_ is.”

She couldn’t see his face, but Brienne knew the minute it dawned on Jaime who she had to be. His back stiffened even as he turned his head to look back at her. And despite every instinct telling her not to do it, she smirked, gave him a small wave, and said, “Sorry I never got your name, but you’ll just have to make your excuses for why you showed up late for spring training to Selmy in person.” She breezed past him and said to Cleos, “Let’s get out of here. I’m starving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **MLB Notes and Trivia:**
> 
> \--I brought up a less-than-happy moment in Cardinals history for the Royals’ one World Championship. In 1985, the Cardinals and Kansas City Royals met in the World Series. In the bottom of the ninth of Game 6, with the Cards up by a run, the first base umpire, Don Denkinger, blew a close call that put the tying run on for the Royals. The replay showed that the runner was out, but there weren’t challenges back then as there are now, so the call stood. It was all downhill from there, as the Cardinals went on to lose the game and then were blown out in Game 7, giving Kansas City its first baseball championship.
> 
> \--Baseball managers are sometimes called "Skip," a shorter version of "skipper." This is reportedly from the days when the manager was usually also a player, referred to as the "captain" of the team. Baseball simply borrowed from the Navy here.
> 
> \--About those knuckleballs: they’re impossible. Just as any hitter, catcher, umpire, and sometimes even the pitcher! Because there’s so little spin on the knuckleball compared to the other pitches, it’s hard to know exactly where the ball’s going to end up, making it difficult to be hit, caught, or called as a ball or strike. It’s the slowest pitch in baseball and, according to R.A. Dickey, who is one of only about 70 MLB pitchers who used it regularly in their careers, it can take more than a year to really get a handle on it.
> 
> Catchers will often have a special oversized mitt especially for catching knuckeballers, and some teams have had a catcher specifically for these pitchers (such as Doug Mirabelli for Tim Wakefield in Boston). The problem for catchers is that these mitts are more difficult to get the ball out of than a traditional catcher’s mitt, making it harder for them to throw out baserunners. Plus, because of the unpredictability of where the knuckleball will go, they tend to get charged with more passed balls than when they catch other pitchers.
> 
> \--Jamie Moyer, who is quoted at the start of this chapter, played for eight different MLB teams over the course of his 25-year career. He spent the most time with the Seattle Mariners, from 1996-2006. Rumor had it that Moyer considered developing a knuckleball pitch to continue his career, but he retired in 2013. The Mariners inducted him into their Hall of Fame in 2015.


End file.
